


Crystals

by rosemallows



Series: Crystals [2]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) RPF
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Victorian (kind of), Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Musicals, Princes & Princesses, Spells & Enchantments, Warlocks, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-08-08 06:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16424174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemallows/pseuds/rosemallows
Summary: Middleborough Kingdom.Prince Jeremy's life is supposed to be perfect. He had gone the way his father had demanded him to and followed each order, each formality until he passed out in his bed at the end of the day.However, there are holes in his life that he cannot quite fill. His hands feel like they could hold the universe, yet they cannot do much of anything. His brain tries to piece the puzzle of his life together, yet all he remembers is a painful shock. There must be something more to this bland life.Michael Mell is a Warlock. Well, at his age, he should have been just as powerful as his mother. But he isn't. He knows his hands hold only a fraction of the solar system, and he's content with that. His family is rich, his skill is adequate, and his best friend is the crystal necklace he acquires. No, he would not like to talk about what happened when he was eleven.This Kingdom is full of greatness, diversity, and just a heaping spoonful of corruption. The big picture is not always clear at first, but, one will find that he is actually closer than ever to unveiling the scene and filling in the gaps.





	1. His Royal Highness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Victubia - The Comic](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/427337) by Gabbiness. 



> "Crystals" [Boyf Riends Fanfiction] written by AttackOnDrunkCry  
> All main characters belong to the musical, written by Joe Tracz, songs written by Joe Iconis "Be More Chill"
> 
> This work was heavily inspired by the Youtuber web-comic "Victubia" illustrated and written by Gabbi or Gabbiness on tumblr. Many of the concepts in the comic that may have been used for the writing were reformulated to display my own creative process.
> 
> Dedicated to one of my best friends Carlie who has been my theatre buddy and sung many of our favorite songs together.
> 
> Thank you to this musical for being the sole reason I've decided to step into the musical theatre world for real-- meaning I'm putting myself out there and engaging myself in theatre based activities that the old me would have been too terrified and skittish to do.
> 
> Please listen to the song "Me & Michael" by MGMT when listening to this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please listen to the following song, which greatly appeals to the duration of these next two chapters.
> 
> C’mon - Panic! at the Disco (With Fun.)  
> {https://youtu.be/zRhNnEkX93M}

             Jeremy stood straighter.

He stood so still and so stiff, he feared his spine may split in half from the pressure of it.

He did not like this new suit acquired for a royal gathering in the next few months. It squeezed his ribcage, his crotch, and itched the back of his neck rather unpleasantly.

“Strut down in a straight line!  Don’t you want to _impress_ the ladies at Prince Jake’s gala?” one of his father’s _important_ guards’ voice echoed off of the ballroom walls. Jeremy puffed out a breath of irritation, folded his hands neatly in his palms and squared his shoulders. He adjusted his face, staring intensely at a wide window that displayed late night stars and a glowing crescent moon. What an elegant night; a pity that four hours of utterly tedious marching around the ballroom, waving your fingers a certain way that was deemed the  _Royal_ way, and so much more useless monstrosities consumed the time he could have spent frolicking about outside of the castle. Why, the Prince could certainly adore the sun's rays, prance around in the town square and chat with the cashier at the small instruments shop. Indeed; pretending you were a citizen of Middleborough, and not a soon to be ruler of it was exhilarating in its own way. The boy wondered how many other Royals may attest to that . . .

A few more moments of Jeremy placing one foot carefully in front of the other and breathing tiny breaths out of his nose as to not somehow destroy this tragic outfit. 

The silver linings around it did something awful to his skin that made him desperate to scratch it whenever he could. Around his shoulders would be a silk, royal blue cape, flowing around him when he would walk and strut and other “Princely” things before he came of age to become King. Many times a thought had popped up in his mind;  _Am I allergic to the materials they use to make my clothes?_   He wondered frequently, what fool notion had attacked his parent's huge, cynical and puzzling brain, to have him acquire such an excruciating display of gold? Why, Jeremy is absolutely certain that one may be able to spot the unpleasant sight of red rashes that are daring to coat his pale skin underneath the jewels and cloth. From a distance, is he not as red as the spot on Jupiter? His black trousers must not have been measured properly, and he’d pointed this out to his father as well as . . .well, whoever had been in charge of designing the clothing for him. On uncountable occasions, had he mentioned the tightness in the pants, expressing his frustrations and discomfort, to no avail.

“Jeremy, it is the social norm for Royals like you to wear tight clothing,” Father had announced in that obnoxious way of his that made him sound like a robot. As if he were better than everyone and knew how everything worked! The nerve of him. How he’d make such a smug face when he was so sure that something would work out. He’d stand straight, lift a finger up, and close his eyes with this dead serious face, lips letting out words that only drove the Prince more insane. “If you want to become a successful Prince, I’d advise you listen to me.”

So, here was Royal Prince Jeremy, marching around in a possibly now sweat filled vest, cape, trousers, and black velvet loafers that did no wonder for his ugly feet. Maybe his toes were the only thing that the King couldn’t make “perfect”. That, and his ocean colored eyes.

But that was fine.

Jeremy was _sick_ of being the _perfect_ boy. His crooked toes and bony feet may now be the only ugly thing about him. It made him feel like he wasn’t such a human doll. Or robot. Whatever. Possibly the reason Squip could not make such a gross display of bones beautiful was because he had not thought to get to them yet.

His aching toes rammed into a random spot on the polished marble; an unpredicted error, which sent the usually good postured Royal into an uncalculated tumble in front of his best soldier and advisor.

The boy fell forward onto his face.

“Ow,” he muttered flatly as the ice cold throb of the floor exploded throughout his nose and jaw. It was tingly, and terribly, terribly unpleasant. Jeremy could predict now the possibly purple blob of a bruise that may expand on his nose later.

“Prince Jeremy!” Royal Guard Goranski’s footsteps were approaching him. He helped the taller boy to his feet, then smiled sheepishly, wincing at the probable redness of the middle of his face.

“Whoops,” the smaller man said, dressed up in that fancy guard suit. Jeremy looked him down, eyes staring at the red streak in his blonde hair. That dyed streak was one of the only things deserting him from the rest of the identical looking guards, and identifying him as the leader of all the guards in the palace. Quite a tedious occupation, along with advising the Prince for a boy as young as himself, he observed.“Look, man— I mean Prince! I’m sorry for pushing you so hard all the time. Uh, I was only doing that because King Squip told me to! But, look I mean, it’s obvious you’re kind of perfect. You don’t really need any extra push. Go and relax. I can’t let your sweat be the reason this expensive ass suit gets destroyed.”

Jeremy flinched slightly. He regained composure and said, “Thank you, Imperial. I’ll . . . be sure to run a bath.”

The head of security chuckled and rubbed his face. “I will get the maids on that.” Goranski turned and headed for the exit of the room, in which Jeremy followed, eagerly waiting for his giant bed to just _fall_ in and not think about his perfectly planned life. However, that would have to wait until hours past midnight, as he still had not fulfilled a mission of his he was determined to finish this week. His . . . weekly routine, that his father has little to no knowledge of.

He wondered if he would have wanted this "luxury" in another life; this . . .  _ache_ that coincided with attempting to be pristine.

The two paced through the palace, Guard Goranski making comments like, “Squip wants to recruit more guards. It’s a hassle organizing the groups, but he trusts me and listening to Squip probably changes me for the better,” and “Tomorrow, your dad will be guiding you through your practices this time, not me. He's not in a townhall meeting tomorrow and I've gotta meet with Jake's guards to talk tactics, so. Anyway, your dad just wants to see how far along you are,” And Jeremy would groan irritably out loud. He’d see the guard glance at him from the corner of his eyes and his lips would start to form a word, but he’d purse his lips and not speak instead.

They arrived at one of the grand bathrooms. The short man beckoned a maid, lovely lady with perfectly styled hair and freckled skin, to run a hot bath. They waited patiently. A few other servants had waltzed in, carrying a bucket of rose petals and another with a bucket of scents and soap suds.

The man with a streak of red in his hair stood straight to attention and Jeremy itched at his neck and resisted the urge to shake his legs out, as is improper for a royal.

“You’re hunched over,” the short one says, staring at the Prince with a blank expression. Oh, the Prince detested whenever the guards, or, anyone in close relations with his father would blandly state this to him. It was . . . eerie, to say the least-- not knowing what goes on in their mind as they so dryly say this. Why it was so eerie was due to the fact that their mysterious invokes a fear within the Prince that they may notify his father, who in turn will punish him.  Jeremy, with his eyes super wide, panics and stiffens his back, then puffs out his chest, slowly arching his back now, and elegantly folding his hands over each other. He figured how strange this may appear to his guider, and sees him arch his eyebrow in confusion. Truth be told, it had been a habit, of his when the King had punished him severely had he showed one centimeter of slouching.

Around eleven years had been the time when the King scooped him off of the streets, wanting to maintain good image as king, and instantly adopting a child he could fix.

“Prince?”

“Sorry,” Jeremy coughs out. He pushes a hand through his combed, sweat filled hair. “You can leave me. I will be fine. I don’t need to be escorted to a bathtub.” The guard snorts, grins, and nods his head in understanding.“As you wish, Your Highness.” With that, Goranski turns and marches like a soldier to his quarters.

“My Prince, your bath is ready,” Thailia, a servant says with a smile. Her face is a bit mannish (Though Jeremy would never say, he likes her for her) and she has strangely cut short hair. Sometimes the Prince spots her wearing a woolen blue sweater, stitched with googly monster eyes. She was a kinder woman, and sometimes came by to 

Jeremy breathes a sigh of relief when the buttons are unbuttoned and the clips are unclipped and every single cloth is slipped off of his skin. He settled into the bath, grateful for the water soothing the red lines around his hips and the aches in his heels. 

He touched his hand to his neck and grumbled at the odd bumps on his skin there; obviously caused by the digging of his collar into his skin. He felt a servant’s hand touch his hair, then another, and they bean scrubbing at his filthy scalp. Jeremy let his head roll back into the hands of one of the ladies. He felt the frothy bubbles smooth against his skin, sending him into the depths of utter relaxation.

A few minutes into settling in, he felt more flower scented, cool water pour over his body. The woman’s slender fingers scratched deeper into his scalp, pushing her fingertips in, vigorously and thoroughly.

 

* * *

 

Once Jeremy was clean and dried off, the teen stood in front of the mirror as the servants finished up and laid his clothing on the clothing rack. He stared at his face for a long, long while, wondering, _Is this really a Prince?_

The seventeen year old touched a hand to his reflection, letting his fingers glide down the reflection’s face. The boy in the mirror had pale, pale skin, void of acne and cleaned of messy eyebrows and facial hairs that he and his father knew did not fit well with his appearance. Prince Jeremy _knew_ very well that he looked nothing like his father. King Squip had the most unnatural shade of blue eyes that the boy had ever seen, while his son’s eyes were a gorgeous sea green and blue, a very enticing look for a Prince. That is possibly one of the kindest things the King had ever said to him; the only physical aspect of him that he was not desperate to alter. 

The Prince did not allow his servants to dress him, because that would cause him to feel similar to that of a young child unable to do things himself. He tied the royal blue collar around his neck, which held a huge, bright white diamond in the middle of it. By peering at this, all citizens across the kingdoms would be aware that the one who wears this, is a Royal from the Middleborough land. _It is a bad omen for you to leave without it_ , Father would say, wagging a finger at him. Jeremy winced at the thought, feeling a cold shiver slither through his skin. He put on his silk white gloves, then his long, white sleeved undershirt and above that, a blue tunic engraved with gold silk linings and golden buttons at the chest, trailing down his stomach. A black belt fastened around his torso, completing that look. He’d have to sport black trousers and black dress shoes as well.

By now, he looked absolutely Royal, and he touched up his hair, though he had no other plans to make him stand out from the crowd. His light brown hair, parted to the right, swept across his forehead. The rest of his hair was fluffy, and looked handsome on the teen. He stepped out of the grand bathroom and closed the oversized doors, then entered the huge hallway, greeting a servant as she smiled kindly.

He exited and entered the jungle of halls, managing to accidentally scare a maid holding piles of towels. He apologized, and proceeded to sprint down the spiral staircase to the main hallway and walk toward his exit—the entrance to the Royal Garden, which had a secret passageway out to town, blocked by a guard.

The Guard’s skin was tinted brown, his cheeks were dotted with many freckles and his eyes were shielded by square spectacles. The lopsided collar around his neck instantly gave the impression of a not so reliable guard.

“Dustin Kropp. Nice to see you!” the Prince smiled. Dustin’s face flushed red, but he straightened his posture, adjusted his armor and held his spear tighter.

“Lord Prince, my excellent, radiant, lovely, Prince!” he stammered out, all the while still having the color red bloom over his tan colored skin.

Jeremy glanced at his shaking figure. “Oh, uh, um . . . I’m going to go out. Walking the garden! You know.” Jeremy resisted the urge to fiddle with his fingers and awaited the young Guard’s response. Dustin Kropp was easy to fool, as he was always spoken about by Goranski as a guard who needed his utmost attention when it came to training and protocol.

Kropp’s mouth parted slightly, but then moved in an awkward grin. He nodded silently, possibly trying to form words but they could not come out. The teen opened the door for the Royal, letting in the cool night air.

The Prince thanked his guard and began to walk out, carefully stepping over rows of violets and forget me nots. Jeremy swept under shrubs with blue roses and scampered out between two tall evergreen American Arborvitaes. He hissed at the pain of twigs poking his skin and snagging some of his hair, but he was out, and the rebellious adrenaline started its course, amplifying every part of his body. He straightened his body and started jogging his way to the main road that led on to the city.

The stars were sparkling wonderfully in the night sky, and the lunar body was high up, shining her divine beauty all over the Kingdom.There were very few people out now, and if they were, it was mostly due to the fact that the city folk were preparing to march into bars and enjoy their times or watch a play. Jeremy savored the journey into his favorite bar, which was the closest one to his castle. It was also large in size, usually stuffed with social butterflies at this time of night. The walk over there usually consisted of the Prince stepping on sharp stones or walking into tall pines accidentally due to the lack of light in his way. Though, occasionally, he sometimes felt at peace with the stones, the wood, and bodies of water.

However, he was glad to find the place he was so desperate to come to. Adrenaline began to course through him as he prepared to enter, full of smiles, cleansed thoroughly, and free, temporarily of Royalty.

As soon as the double doors came into view, Jeremy cringed at having to adjust himself before entering the bar. Sounds of commotion and light chatter seeped through the hollow wood, delighting the teenager. He fixed up the diamond collar and tugged on his silk gloves before pushing open the doors, entering just as the stage facing the bar introduced a play, starring the reason why the Royal came here weekly.

A teenager, around Jeremy’s age introduced herself to the cheering crowd. Her costume was colored a sweet, pastel pink. The dress poofed outward and stopped just at her ankles so anyone would catch a glimpse of the wooden clogs fitted around those petite feet. On top of her head was a fake Princess cap that matched the dress color with mesh flowing out of the top, exaggerating her role as a Princess in this play.

The corners of the skinny teen’s lips stretched to his ears, and few small butterflies fluttered about in his stomach. The girl had grown her hair out. It used to be short and clipped back, but now it smoothed over her shoulders and flowed down her back. If Jeremy were to touch that silk black hair, he could swear that his fingers would not struggle to break through those soft strands. Her eyes were the shape of almonds, and so gorgeous and sweet and full of kindness. She was full of the sweetness that Jeremy believes he fell in love with. Such a pure soul, who had no business being in a mere pub for plays (she should be in an extravagant theater!), though her performances were absolutely excellent.

Christine Canigula.

Beautiful was not enough to describe such a love. She should be his _Princess_. Jeremy was so entranced by the idea of Christine being a Princess… They would look extravagant together, would they not?

Of course. That thought alone has to be _proof_ that Jeremy is in love with such a talented lady.

He felt his shoes move slowly to find a spot in front of the crowd where he could take in most of the Princess–performer’s canvas. He heard the quiet gasps of townsfolk as they parted respectfully for the Royal. City folk acquired more money than those in the village; which made Middleborough slightly more rich than average. These folk were raised much less harshly than the Royal, however, were raised with proper etiquette therefore giving the Prince respect. He scooted forward, catching better sight of his crush, and Jeremy marveled in how her character flowed gracefully and projected her voice.

She caught eyes with him as she spoke to another man with more exaggerated costume details- a knight whom she was "giving" orders to. A smile fell upon her lips in greeting, causing the Prince to grin back. He noted how the girl was awfully more cheerful than her last few appearances at the bar. The performance was lengthy, though Jeremy was not too bothered by the fact because it was Christine Canigula performing that role as she had done every week.

At the end, the Royal was snapped out of his transition toward sleep when the sounds of thunderous claps exploded near his ears and nudging elbows pricked his back. Jeremy instinctively began applauding with all of his night, nodding and smiling as the men and women and others whistled and threw bouquets of roses or flowers. The cast of this week’s play, Christine being in the center, all bowed as the bar’s audience cheered more. Jeremy’s eyes met up with Christine’s again, and she raised her eyes back to the whole of the crowd. She thanked them and touched her hand to some of the audience members.

Jeremy decided to step away momentarily until she was done answering her new fans’ questions. The Prince cut through the dense population, stunning someone who was cradling a mug of ale and gifted with a shriveled gasp from someone sipping Tongue Twister (though it may have been the alcohol, Jeremy can’t be sure). He lowered his head as he sat down on a bar stool, snatching the eyes of fans who shakily began approaching the Prince.

However, before Jeremy could accidentally utter out some obscure, awkward statement, a tall man gathering his coats, belongings, and wearing a hat that covered his long face, said in a deep gruff voice, “Don’t bother the Prince now, huh? He’s just tryna drink here. Don’t give him no attention when he didn’t ask, yeah?” For a strange reason, that phrase seemed to implant itself in the town folks’ heads.

Like a puppet controlled by strings, they ultimately turned and sipped from a glass, wooden cup, or mug.

Jeremy, slightly shocked, was about to turn to inquire the man but, that man had disappeared from his vision as quickly as he was there. He arched his eyebrows in confusion, about to stand and possibly search for his existence when suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Jeremy! Ah, Prince, I mean!” Little Miss Canigula squeaked. She was in her typical cotton maiden’s dress, hair clipped back as usual and wooden clogs replaced with woolen shoes. King Squip would most likely comment negatively on her social status rather than focus on her kind personality. Her face was painted with giddy, and she was jumping up and down in her spot quite a lot.

“Christine! Wow, you did great!” Jeremy smiled as the actress rubbed her arm in embarrassment.

“Aw, thanks. I’m really proud of my performance this time. Did you see that? Like, I think I really impressed a whole bunch of people this time.” The girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she rambled. Her smile never faltered as she flushed, thinking of herself in the spotlight.

“Oh! Oh— well, I think you do amazing all the time,” the Prince states with a burning face. He clenched his fists tight, thinking of the right words to say to this little actress. Someone moved around him to order three mugs of beer and a magical martini that had to be served in those odd looking glasses. Christine looked up at him, brown orbs looking at the ocean.

Jeremy swallowed as she giggled, holding a hand up to her lips.

“You’re so sweet, Prince!” she said, smiling, smiling _smiling._  With pearls that must have been founded deep within the pits of the black sea.The Royal laughed half heartedly and rubbed his fingers together in an attempt to relieve the urge to run his hands through his hair.

“Hey, why don’t you just call me Jeremy? I’d rather not have any formalities while talking to a friend, y’know?” Christine’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Of course, Jeremy. Totally. You’re really cool, you know?” The teen said, nodding her head thoughtfully. She rubbed her elbows and a cinched look appeared on her face. Her eyebrows had knit together in thought as it looked like she was processing her next words. “Can I say something? It’s kind of weird but . . . I really thought about it and you’re like a really close friend and I think that it’d be sucky to just keep this from you. I just feel like . . . you’d understand and I hope that even if this is strange and totally out of the ordinary, that you’ll still treat me normal. You, out of all people would understand it most, Jer.” The seventeen year old’s mouth parted open and felt heat rushing to his ears, cheeks, and throat. The nervousness and intensity was creeping up all over his skin, itching itching _itching_ underneath all his clothing and scrubbing against his collar.

He nodded, brandishing a cool face as the girl sat on the stool next to him. She nodded too, smiling and exhaling a small laugh. She looked at the bartender, noting his skeptical look.

“Just an apple cider please,” she ordered. The man nodded and turned. “Are you getting anything, Jeremy?” Christine turned and blinked at her friend.

The Prince shook his head. “No, I’m good.” The actress handed the bartender a coin, in return for a medium sized mug of warm cider. She took a long sip from her beverage, leaving the Royal antsy with questions riddling through his head.

“Are you . . . Are you doing anything next week? Cause, maybe before your show we could hang . . . if my dad lets me . . .” Jeremy mumbled as nerves collected themselves in his body.

“What was that?” Christine piped up, looking thoughtfully at her friend.

“Uh, nothing,” Jeremy said instead, cowering down at inquiring his crush to a date. Christine’s face was hard to decipher what she may say next, maybe because the most expression seen on the girl’s face was joy, happiness, bright, and any other synonym for happy.

“Well, here,” she began, breathing out. Her face inched closer to Jeremy, his heart beating incredibly fast as her features approached his own. The felt his stomach tighten, and the strings of his heart being plucked like a guitar. Blood, heat, all of it burning his skin. Then, suddenly, a smile broke out on her face, and Jeremy felt taken aback at the sudden shift in emotions. She quickly pulled her right hand up and pushed it toward Jeremy’s face. Confused at the action, he looked into his crush’s eyes, which were brimming with anticipation and excitement. He let his eyes trail back to Christine’s hand, and . . .

He caught a glimpse of a huge green emerald dazzling bright on the actress’ ring finger. It was absolutely gorgeous . . . A golden band etched with the words _I Love You_ if you looked closely enough and completed with an emerald the size of a peanut. The ring had to be _expensive_ for such a young, poor maiden to wear.

“Wait--What?” Miah sputtered out, thousands of thoughts and emotions stumbling about in his brain. Christine’s voice echoed off of his brain three times before he could make out what she said.

“Oh, I didn’t wanna tell anyone! But Jeremy, you deserve to know!” she squealed. “And I know! I’m really excited too!”

“But . . . who are you marrying?” Jeremy says, breathless as something inside of him cracks. Christine’s eyes are suddenly full of love, and she’s blushing ferociously. There is a certain hopeless romantic look on her face that Jeremy had never recognized whenever she spoke to him.

“Jake Dillinger . . . _Prince_ Jake Dillinger of Menlo Kingdom!” At the mention of the Royal’s name,  Jeremy’s blood ran cold. Prince Jake Dillinger. He had met him and his shady, twisted seeming parents once before, years ago as well as a grand dinner uniting all of Middleborough’s closest trade partners after a successful relationship with a country across the sea. He had met many Princes, Princesses, Kings, Queens, Dukes, Duchesses, and more.

The boy was soon to be king, an unexpected event, as he was predicted to take over the throne in many years to come. His parents, the King and Queen of Menlo had been found to be doing corrupt doings such as trading with enemy lands, taking money from previous Kingdoms in trade, conducting experiments that are unspeakable. What the Royals have done regarding money and trade has put their Kingdom in tremendous jeopardy. At the expense of this, their Royal Advisor as well as the other empires including Middleborough, Edison, and Red Bank, have come together to overrule the way too corrupt couple and order them to be executed.

However, forgetting how slippery the two are, they have left a note and mysteriously ran away from their Kingdom. It has been about a month since the guilty ones have gone missing, specifically stating to give their son, Prince Jake, the rewarding title of King and to be put in charge of the city, town, and village, all the while being courted to a suitable bachelorette. The couple’s crowns were placed eloquently beside the note

Their rule was to be enforced, as the Royal Advisor had decided. But . . . Jeremy had not expected the Prince to marry someone of low status. Especially with  _his_ current reputation, which is in desperate need of upholding.

“Menlo Kingdom, I see,” Jeremy mumbled. He looked up at the beaming soon-to-be Princess/Queen. “How did you meet?” Christine nearly fainted with enthusiasm.

“When my Prince’s parents resigned from the throne--” her face scrunched up in a distant look for a moment before lightening back up, “--he was ordered to meet with his Kingdom’s closest partner in trade, which was this one, and met with all of Middleborough’s town officials, including King, mayors, public speakers, officers, yada yada.” Jeremy remembered that lunch. He was either fifteen, nearing his sixteenth birthday, or just turned sixteen around the few months. He could not quite place what month it had been, as fuzzy as his memory is. However, he remembers that it was absolutely boring and tedious and he had nearly fallen asleep during the meal as Prince Jake and his advisor droned on and on while his town’s officials clapped and shouted out ass-kissing compliments about how great and magnificent he would be.

Dad had pinched him hard to keep him awake.

“And anyway, he stopped at this bar around dinner time, which is right when I was performing! I remember seeing him when I performed as Juliet in the play. He stood out a _lot_ . He had this choker with an emerald, and that’s when I knew, wow! _This_ was a _Royal_! His eyes were on me most of the time. And I never expected him to talk to me after the play! But he did! And that was the first time he ever talked to me. After that, we kept writing letters back and forth. He visited from time to time . . . during the sixth month--that was the fourth time he visited by the way-- he took me on this lovely carriage ride in the meadows of Middleborough. That’s when he brought me to this beautiful blossom creek and kissed me! Oh, that’s when we started our romance, I’m sure. And . . . well, it’s been like this for fourteen months, and just yesterday, he visited and brought me to this pumpkin patch and proposed. Gosh, I wrote a letter to my dad right away. It took a lot of convincing to Prince Jake’s advisor for him to marry a peasant.” Christine winced at the title. “But, now . . . I finally get to marry him. Our wedding is coming up so soon, King Jake's Coronation  & Wedding”

Jeremy stayed silent majority of the story. He felt himself burning, and there was a pulse in his palms that made him want to squeeze them tightly till blood dropped onto the floor. Jeremy, however, looked up and smiled with full, full teeth and a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. 

“That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!” he said, stretching his arms out to engulf the girl in an enormous hug. The small girl wrapped her arms around his torso as well.

He heard her sniffle in happiness. “I knew you would, I knew it,” she teared up. “You’re such a good friend, Jer. I knew you would get it. You’re a Prince, after all. I knew you would treat me normal still even though I’m about to be a Queen.” The two pulled apart, and Christine quickly chugged more of her cider before wiping her eyes.

Jeremy smiled with sad eyes, pushing down the one-sided love he felt in his stomach. “I’ll write to you frequently. As soon as you settle into your new Kingdom. I’ll write. Menlo _is_ a long ways from Middleborough, you know?”

Christine smiled fondly. “Thank you so much for understanding Jer.” She looked at her ring, then smiled one last time at Jeremy. She stood up from her stool and smoothed out her dress. Her grin and bubbly expression never faltered even as she skipped out the door, twirling like the lovestruck fool she was.

Jeremiah’s stiff, troubled grin also did not falter. The bar was still slightly busy. Men and women and more drank their beverages, bustling about in the area close to the curtained stage. The Prince’s face was still intact, sporting that broken, broken expression. He turned around to the bartender, gripping the wood on the table tightly so that he would not topple over.

The candlelight that bloomed over the whole building flickered mockingly at the broken-hearted fool, and his eyes refused to spill water. Or, rather, _Jeremy_ refused to let his eyes spill water, even if they were the color of the ocean. The sea may have been in his eyes, but the sea will never pour in an area void of the sand and the sky.

Maybe the sea used to pour when there _was_ sand and sky. But someone had already stripped those items from his mind.

Prince Jeremy looked up at the quiet bartender. He was cleaning magical, color shifting glasses with a simple rag. When he finished, he turned around, and inquired the boy with just a single expression. The Royal suddenly felt tired, and he looked up and saw the collection of bottles hovering just above the man’s head. Jeremy’s mind was spinning, and he needed to chill for just a moment. So, he stared back at the bartender.

“One glass of firebreather and one bottle to go,” he ordered, snagging a small pouch of gold coins from his pocket before the bartender could decline his request with his simple expression. When the pouch spilled one pure gold coin, the man’s face shifted from stern to something ghost-like. His skin went so pale, and he stood there, shocked.

That’s when Jeremy realized that, man, this bartender _is_ a ghost. His skin was sickly pale, and his feet were transparent. The man had that ghosted expression on his face, which Jeremy interpreted as his astonishment for some teenager paying way too much money for alcohol.. He floated over to the overhead structure and pulled out a long bottle of the Prince’s desired beverage as well as pouring the elixir into a oddly shaped glass.

Prince Jeremy perched himself on the stool as the bartender placed the alcohol in front of the teen. The ghost’s expression was uncertain as he stared down the Prince while pressing a lighter to one of the special mugs to clean it.

Prince Jeremy inhaled. He said to the spirit, “I won’t tell. No one will find out anyway.” The teenager was surprised at the sudden confidence in himself. He took his glass, which was shaped in various irregular shapes. The elixir inside was his favorite kind of magical beverage and always relaxed him in anxious states of his. Firebreather changed hue in a span of seconds from either light pink to blazing orange to hot red. Bubbles always popped in the liquid and on the surface and tiny balls of flames would appear whenever the drink turned red hot. The teenager swallowed down a few huge gulps of the intense drink. His tongue burned and his throat tightened from the burning sensations the glass provided. Jeremy felt lava pouring down his esophagus and drilling holes into his internal organs. But, it felt _nice_. The painful taste provided some sort of comfort that he could not always be provided with. He took another drink. And another.

Until his head felt a bit cloudy.

He finished the beverage, finished the glass, and looked up at the ghost, who was sipping a moonlight martini; it glowed various hues, from purple to blue to pink to pure white, and glowed super brightly. Jeremy would have tried it when they served them at dinner parties in the castle, but, he was underage, and it would have disgraced Squip’s reputation. However, the King did drink them with his guests, and the color always stayed blue upon touching his tongue, while for another guest, the beverage stayed a lovely pink.

Jeremy stood up slowly from the stool and clutched his bottle tight against his chest. There were slight blurs in his vision, as if somebody had replaced his eyeballs with smudged mirrors. Or a broken kaleidoscope. The Prince took a grudging step forward. His throat felt like sandpaper, rubbing against a jagged rock constantly, each time he took a step. He exhaled slow, and heard the rough sound of that breath. From that breath, the Prince coughed an unsatisfying cough, ripping a smoky smell through the night air as he pushed the bar’s doors open. For some reason, the castle seemed much farther away than anticipated.

This must be the equivalent of falling down into a rabbit hole, isn’t it?  
This was no matter, and his hands could carry his beverage until he would be able to store it underneath a small wedge in his bed. He moved sluggishly, and felt the sensation of magma screeching on his spinal cord and electricity burning in his brain, molting and mixing and mushing all his pink tissue and skull to a batter of organ and skin and tissue. The magma would not stop burning random places on his back. Yet, the fire felt so familiar.

The ocean’s waves dripped down onto the sand.

His eyes leaked salty, salty tears, digging new trenches in his porcelain skin. The smudged glass that were his eyes cracked even more with the water seeping through it, and Jeremy had trudged somewhere between three trees. If he perhaps was not intoxicated, he would have listened closely to the nearby rushing sounds of water from beyond the trees— the River of Chance. That body of water was off-limits to most, as it was a nature reserve. Orally told by villagers and city folk, the rumor says that River of Chance could decide or change your destiny. Thus inspired the name  _River of Chance_ or  _Chance River_. 

However, there was no way Chance could change his destiny from not marrying Christine Canigula. He did not sniffle. Water flowed mercilessly down his neck and stained his outfit. He touched his hand to the pine wood, and felt a familiar touch. There was an urgency calling from his palms to move slightly to the right, and because he was stumbling so much, and silently crying too much, and way, way dizzy, he trusted those instincts.

His knee was begging him to magnetize to the jagged stone path.

And his knee pounded against the horrid path, scraping his pants’ fabric, and damaging a thin layer of skin. The Prince wobbled back up, trudging onward as his body swiveled in multiple directions. He wondered slightly if he looked a bit strange to onlookers—if there were any— and thought nothing much of it. His body indeed looked like a toddler beginning to walk again, or rather, a toddler with a blindfold over their eyes and they are told to find a grain of sand in a tan colored room.

The sense of that is exactly how the poor Prince looked. His white gloves collected condensation from the chilled bottle, and the fire inside the glass cracked disdainfully. He trudged, trudged, trudged.

He had to believe that he was approaching the right direction, though his brain was utterly scrambled, so how could he use the _believe_ function of his mind? This seemed so impossible; the task of finding his home. He could not, for the love of him, seem to find it.

The boy reached a palm out, letting air hit his white glove. He stumbled, stumbled, stumbled forward. In no time, he felt his glove snag onto that intimate privacy hedge of the castle. His voice struggled to form coherent words, and his eyes caught lots and lots of dark green blurs—the _right_ color of the hedges.

He felt for the small entrance, and sobbed as he crawled through the hole with one sleeve hugging the long beverage. He felt at peace with the earth, and felt the dirt pulse against his skin. He bubbled out incoherent words, which sounded a lot like, “bleg.” He tried to speak words, really, he did, and pushed himself up, then shoved the bottle between some shrubs, hidden by shrouds of green. Crawling was somewhat easier now. _Rabbit hole_.

Everything felt as if they were falling down around him.

Dustin Kropp still had to be guarding the entrance, though the Prince’s stroll in the garden may have gone on for over three hours. Prince Jeremy was to rise early for his schooling with Mr. Reyes, and then switch to ballroom dancing practice with that tight-faced woman who taught ballet all the way in France while his father watched, and then switch to etiquette lessons with Squip who will most likely dumb him down to a few squeaks after describing how ugly he was.

He heard the doors to the Garden unlock.

“Where is he? Where is he? Fuck!” There was a loud, audible slam of what sounded like someone kicking a barrel. Jeremy bubbled out a random word again, “ _Nleegh_ .” which could have translated to, _help me._

The shuffling of footsteps flew into Jeremy’s ears. The sounds got closer and closer til—

Someone inhaled sharply. “Prince! Holy Squip, what the fuck were you up to, my Lord?” The sound was unmistakable. Jeremy felt someone pull his arms up and drag his limp legs.

  
“My Lord, I need to get your ass into bed before your dad comes back from a meeting. You’re so damn lucky, you drunk! He’s coming back _soon_ though." 

Rich Goranski was running and speaking, and oh so fast for a short male covered in burning hot metal– _That is probably just armor._

Jeremy does not remember the feeling of marble on his legs as he was dragged around the huge, huge castle. Every bit was absolutely hazy, and his throat was scalding with Hell's agonizing weapon contained in the form of a bottle.

He _does_ however, remember the _bump bump bump_ of the red carpet and wood as he was dragged all the way up the spiral staircase.

And he _does_ remember being tossed into his bed, back up against the soft backboard of his huge, round bed. And he _does_ remember opening his eyes to a glass of water in his face. Jeremy, feeling the hot peppers in his throat still grinding with the sandpaper, gladly took the gift from heaven, and poured the chilling ice water into his poor, poor throat.

After finishing the glass, he blinked away some of the smudged mirror. His eyes scanned his surroundings until he looked straight at his Royal Guard. Rich held another glass of water, and his eyebrows were cinched in . . . examination.

Jeremy’s insides still felt horribly mashed, and his brain and spine still burned unpleasantly. But he took the water once more and drank, drank _drank_ til his tongue felt more mild. Royal Guard Goranski took the two glass cups from his Highness and bowed for formalities, though Jeremy was still in too much of a daze to understand entirely.

Goranski turned and said, “Get in your pajamas, Prince, Squip is just getting out of his carriage.” As soon as the shorter boy exited, Jeremy moved out of his bed, alert at the name _Squip_. He did not have to look very far before snatching a hidden silk article of clothing off of his palace floor. Jeremiah pulled off his gloves, sitting back onto his bed to smooth the article of clothing. He sluggishly stuffed the pair underneath his pillows, and with a jumbled stomach, ripped apart his Royal clothing and threw them to the ground.

His shoes lay next to the chair, flipped over and smelling of sod. The Prince placed his collar onto the chair nearest to the round bed, and he placed the silk white nightgown over his head. The piece was not exactly the most _masculine_ , but, Jeremy did not care for the social rules when he was in his own privacy. The gown fit him, and was very comfortable to sleep in. No King, no snooty Royal, no disturbed, snotty person was there to inwardly judge him for wearing what he enjoyed.

He lay on the comforts of his circular bed, tasting the remnants of alcohol on the back of his tongue. His vision was still slightly dizzy, though the cups of water certainly relieved him of nausea building up in his system. The elixir must take pleasure in attacking all his organs, however, because though the swampiness in his body subsided, there was still hot, boiling liquid inside of him.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to shut his eyelids so bad, and let himself drift off for a while, sleep for some time before five in the morning hit him, and he’d have to deal with a sickening headache while focusing on useless academics.

His brain felt slightly worse; the sound of a fork and knife scraping against a porcelain plate amplifies in his skull, all the while a whisk rapidly mixes the organ. It was too much, and he just wanted all the burning fire to stop. He let his eyes flutter shut, let the colors twisting in his vision try and form together.

He heard the huge door in his bedroom creak open and wondered if he looked like a dead body with the thick blankets resting just on his waist.

There was a faint, “Prince?” and that may have been one of the servants. The servants said something along the lines of leaving something next to him for the morning and to get some rest. The King has arrived home and he is finishing up some duties in the castle’s basement. Castle basement.

The sound of footsteps echoed throughout his room, and whoever was there had placed a glass bottle of something next to his bedside, clinking against the table.

He rolled over in the circular bed, nausea taking over every piece of him. He clenched the thick blankets close to himself, letting its warmth engulf him and comfort his skin.

His eyes felt heavy, and his stomach, tongue, throat were tingly.

  
Right before another squeak of his door opened, all systems sprinted to a short shutdown.


	2. The Loser Warlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please listen to the following song, which greatly appeals to the duration of this chapter.
> 
> C’mon - Panic! at the Disco (With Fun.)  
> {https://youtu.be/zRhNnEkX93M}

 

             “Mom!” 

 

His voice echoed off of the walls of his home, too loud in the early morning of this cool autumn day. He peered deeper into the kitchen, irritance overwhelming himself greatly. The teen striked down an empty, maximum sized brown paper bag that had appeared in the kitchen when it was _supposed_ to be full of items and standing straight in the cabinet full of groceries to be used the next day. He glanced toward another bag, lying about and remains of orange rinds scattered about the tiles. 

He heard footsteps rush behind him, a frantic voice saying, “What’s wrong, Micah? What-- oh!” Madam Mell had arrived on scene, pearl necklace clasped securely around her neck, and perfectly elegant Witch’s attire suiting her figure. Incredibly obvious it was that she were about to enter work in just a couple of minutes.

Michael Mell turned toward his mother with his lips cinched tightly and eyebrows raised expectantly.

“You understand my urgency now,” the teenager stated bluntly. His expression was painted with annoyance, implying that the situation laid before them had occurred more than this one instance. He gestured toward the scraps of orange peel as well as shredded carcasses of brown bags. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to make that special ‘eye of newt dinner’.”

Mother Mell tapped her fingers against her thigh, chewing her lip thoughtfully. 

“That toad is absolute vernon! First-- it swallowed all my ingredients for your elixir! Next, he ate all the groceries!” Her accent was evident as she spoke frustratedly. It was such an inconvenience; a mischievous toad gallivanting about the premises of the Mell household and stealing whatever crumbs or pieces of food it shall find and leaving the home a mess! Why, this has been happening for at least three nights, and now, to eat up the ingredients Michael Mell would use for the next three days’ dinner? Why, that was absolutely the _end of it!_

The mother and son began cleaning up the scraps of food and shredded pieces of grocery bags. Mother Mell however seemed to pick up speed in her cleansing of the mess, as she knew she would have to be early at her beloved occupation at the Mell Family Health Clinic that guaranteed the best medicine in the entire kingdom for all creatures alike.

“ _Fili mi,_ ” the mom asked quickly, as she adjusted her outfit while standing up. The teenager, about seventeen, who swept up the carcasses of the citrus, snapped his head toward her and gave full attention.

“I know you work so so hard, my dear,” She picked off a thread of dirt from her dark attire. “But, I ask you to take Marley into the city this morning and get new groceries, yes? Not this village fruit market Mike! The square in the city, just like we always do.” 

“Alright mama,” he responded, not too burdened by the task, as Marley quite enjoyed long rides. His mother was terribly picky about the quality of each meal; insisting always on the best of the best, no matter how long the length of the journey to retrieve the best. As the current owner and essential element to the family clinic of nursing those in need back to help, her time with her son was extremely limited. As a result, there were outcomes where she may be gone overnight and half the day, arriving home with intense eye bags and a bite wound from a paranoid pixie who had broken her left wing. 

Quite an intense job that one was.

As the older woman left the home with a handbag and customary witch hat, her son began gathering the necessary materials needed to attend to Middleborough City’s market. 

He had filled a bag full of coins for the food, as well as a few more coppers for his own personal items he is willing to purchase. With that, he had also managed to smooth down his expandable red vest, an extravagant present gifted from his mother on his sixth birthday. Its expandable properties were blessed with the magic of a witch’s— resulting in its expensive price. Just around the torso area, however, hidden by the arms once they hung limply by his side, was a patch, messily sewn into the fabric of the vest. The word in it was scrawled almost incoherently, as whoever had stitched in the word was clearly not adequate enough with the art of a needle and thread. “Magical” the patch read, though Michael’s expression did not seem overly excited to feel the rough of its edges. 

The teenager’s magic vest that he wore with almost every article of black long sleeved dress shirts he owned was one of three heart-attack inducing expenses Mother Mell had purchased on her son for his birthday. For, she served the most extravagant gifts at the ages she felt Michael had grown as a boy. At age six, she had watched him grow from a toddler into a child, so the clothing he received may grow with him as he transitions from child, to teenager, to adult. At age eleven, his personality grew from a spoiled boy to one who appreciated the world around him and welcomed love into his arms. He received a pair of exquisite, black squid ink gloves that he promised himself to cherish until the day he step onto marble floors and sweep a dame off of her feet in a Royal Ball of some sort.

 By age sixteen, Michael had received one of his most prized possessions.

The seventeen year old carried a tied bag of coins in one hand, and a pocket watch in the next as he exited his abode. He pushed up round spectacles onto the bridge of his nose and walked around his porch to attend to the fenced area of land that served as his backyard.

The yard was large, and stuffed with grass and a small barn big enough for one wide animal. 

Hurrying along, the son whistled a high, lengthy whistle with fingers between his lips. His eyes, hidden by the frame he wore, looked about the barn, waiting for a beast to trot out.

Trot out he did, as the third gift’s magnificent mane gently kissed the breeze, and swiftly skittered his way toward the Mell child. His midnight colored beauty shone against the morning sun, defying and reflecting the rays of such bright yellow. The beast was a beautiful one, neighing as he stopped in front of the tan one. 

He allowed the human to take one hand beneath his mouth, and another stroking just beneath his eye and gliding along his neck and mane.

“Good morning, Marley,” Michael whispered. “Ready for a ride back to the city?” For his sixteenth birthday, just last year, Mother Mell was found as late as four in the morning hammering down wood and slapping smears of red paint along oak slabs and sticks, stuck together with nails and molded with thick substances of magic. Her son was far too tired to think anything of it, and resulted in him passing out once more against his pillow.

The following morning, his mother brought him out to be greeted eye to eye with a black, friesian three year old midnight beauty with legs appearing as if they were dipped in a sea of white chocolate. His mother had bought the quiet beast from a quite sketchy man, yet, Michael’s intense care and love for his new friend brought Marley happiness. His new ride to new places filled him with intense excitement.

The Warlock was quite slow at adjusting the proper gadgets and such on his friend, and it was quite tedious attaching a cart onto his friend for the groceries he was about to fetch.

However, despite the grand hours of making sure all the hooks were attached right, and his saddle set and the cart tightly fastened, he felt for the gold pouch in his belt and straightened himself right up on Marley, beginning to ride him into Middleborough City, which was quite a long ride.

There was not a more gorgeous city than Middleborough City; home to the Royal Morris family; oh, how the teen despised them . . . for reasons he’d not ever admit to his mother, nor the lady he frequently chats with whenever he purchases his own lunches for school.

The boy trotted outward on the friesian, out of the bustle of people who hurried about the stores and markets of the town. He detested this setting when it was smothered with families and adults who were waiting to pawn off precious metals or ladies fancying purchasing a baby blue dress confected with puff sleeves, or to simply shop.

The teenager arrived simply to do just so; shop, and meet once more with a special friend to supply himself with his own favorites for his late night adventure later. He had already gathered the brown bags of groceries, quite irked with having to ride the long hour to the city, all for higher quality ingredients in their meals. His purchases consisted of restocking all the items that the fat toad trapped in his house kept horking down. Now that the wagon was stuffed with giant paper bags full of fresh produce and quality potent ingredients, he’d be able to finish his last chore.

That mind of his thought back to the events of the morning, as he led the black beast toward the long journey back home, and was eager to indulge himself for long hours of solitude later in the night.

Michael guided Marley to an empty spot near the abundance of Middleborough City shops. Unlike his village which were merely stands and uncovered structures, the more luxurious town was full of lively, enclosed shops that consisted of selling fabric, clothing, books, spellbooks, medicine, appliances, jewelry and more. 

“Stay here,” Mell commanded as he helped himself off of the black horse. As he landed, he noticed the streaming crowd of people walking everywhere and around him. A fairy carried a brown bag full of freshly pulled carrots and fluttered across the street to the pawn shop. Next, there were a group of children, possibly around thirteen or fourteen walking joyously down the sidewalk, crates of potted plants in each of their giddy arms.

He first brought his gaze around each building, mumbling to himself as he fumbled to find a flower shop. 

This was his last order of business.

He poured his stare into the begrudging amount of gold coins cupped into his palm. The price was painstakingly _absurd_ but perhaps he was even more absurd for willing to pay that amount. Just next to a stable supply shop resided the tinier and just closed flower shop. The woman inside flipped the store’s sign and shuttered down the blinds, despite it being quite early in the noontime.

He shuffled as casually as possible down the few blocks to obtain his purchase. Once he’d arrived, the Witch eyed the tiny alleyway separating the store and its neighbor, vendors calling out sale prices for tougher, stronger saddles and more beneficial horse feed.

“Kid, you couldn’t have made it any more obvious?” gruffed a haughty voice from behind the teen. Abruptly, he spun about, staring painfully at the Stockboy who had eyes shielded by darkened spectacles and was covered by a cloak. _Ironic._

In his arms appeared a brown shoe-box for old men’s loafers, and the Stockboy grinned oily at the pile of metal shining in Michael’s palm.

“Yes. Yes! Let me see,” he said, somehow snagging the coins in record speed while still maintaining the box’s integrity.

Michael Mell shifted on each foot uncomfortably as his drug dealer repeatedly sniffed the gold and copper pieces, as well as biting and licking every bit. 

“So uh, am I gonna get my weed?” Michael inquired, straight faced but internally eager.

“Shh shh shh, boy!” hissed the hooded man. “We are in the City! Don’t you know anything about being discreet?”

The teen simply raised his hands up in defense while Stockboy went back to licking and chewing the metals.

“Excellent, excellent,” he commented. He focused on Michael Mell, scrutinizing every bit of his face and his awkward stance. His eyes traveled down his outfit, the vest, the sweater, and even his almost beaten leather shoes.“You’ve got money. Maybe you wanna think about making more . . . _accommodating_ purchases?” 

“I’m good with this, man,” deadpanned the teenager as he took the shoebox into his hands. His dealer simply frowned but allowed him to take the marijuana. 

“You serious? I have all kinds of goodies . . . Some get you that euphoric feeling you will never get from just that green!” Then he lowered his voice and face toward Michael’s. “Ecstasy, cocaine . . . this new shipment called The Bliss—”

“I’m really good, man. Thanks for the offer,” he answered louder this time. The Stockboy simply clicked his tongue and dramatically rolled his head.

“Whatever kid. Anyway, that stuff’s the best quality you can buy. Enjoy it.” The man grinned and waved him off, shuffling his body into the tight alleyway between the two shops. Michael simply blinked behind his glasses heaving an unimpressed sigh as he made his walk to the next shops on the list.

Every dealer he’d met with often claimed the same sentiment— _the best quality you can buy_ , but they were all the same.

His careful fingers gently tipped open the enclosed goods and his eyes met with tight, air sealed small bags full of different forms of cannabis. There were three little tubes full of sweet amber liquid, all each a diverse, insane flavor. Modern and discreet, it would not be a hassle to take one or two puffs of the oils in public. However, being _classic_ was one of Mell’s distinct personality traits. He preferred more old-school entertainment ways to most activities now, not that he found himself particularly _special_ for preferring such. The fact was simply this: Michael Mell had more _fun_ when he did activities that were a few decades too old.

Perhaps it was also that he was one of those people who clung to the past, unable to move on as quickly as others could.

Then in the box, there were a few classic pre-rolled joints and blunts thankfully vacuum sealed along with just a couple of green nuggets rolling around in a sandwich bag. There appeared a genuine smile on his lips, and he closed the lid.

_Maybe this really is the best quality I can buy._

* * *

 

             The Crystal Room served to be a place of solitude for Michael. One place for him to be alone and for his thoughts to wander and his body to relax. The ominous darkness of the caverns should have made him cower back in fear, but . . . the rocks felt welcoming to him. The poor boy respectfully placed his shoes near the cave entrance, slowly walking toward the faintly glowing stones.

He grazed his fingertips along one, breathing out a blissful sigh at the calm energy.

“It’s sad to think,” the boy began, “That you're kinda my only friends.” Of course, the crystals could not respond. All they could do was glow and fade. It was a cavern full of purple, glistening magic stone. 

Magic.

The boy laughed lightheartedly. He stood taller now, furthering into the depths. There was a small path leading to a black stream in there. All he had to do was follow the light of the stones. Michael carefully placed each bare foot in front of the other, zigzagging around each growing crystal until there would be a small crevice in the dark floor. He’d turn a left from the nature-made indentation, following a path of jagged lavender rock which ran all the way up to the high ceiling. They pulsed purple light, about three beats of dim light for one second, which would then start up again around six seconds later. (Michael had calculated this in his research notebook) When you walk farther down past the pulsing stones, you are faced with an even larger cavern. 

Around this area would be steep holes which were a pain to fall into. It was decorated with hanging rocks, some tiny dogtooth spars imbedded in them, and more sharp toothed cave goods bursting from the grounds. Being aware of the danger, the beauty of this canyon room was easier to accept than its flaw of death. The lavender treasure was so easy to spot, as they glistened to your eye whenever you turned your face. Very shallow water pooled the area. But that was not what he was after either. He swung himself under, into a hole near the side of the cave. The pathway full of crystals stopped at an uneven wall and would be hard to spot an exit if your eyes weren’t as eager to find something interesting as Michael’s were. Near the ground of the cave would be a cavity, and with a light shone into it, would be able to spot a ceiling that sported long, jagged rocks constantly dripping with water.

The drop to the ground seemed slightly ominous, but was not a long drop. It was about two feet down, and the teen giddily landed on his two feet. The ankles of his pants were sodden now, bound to be uncomfortable once he stepped out of the caverns. However, he was adventurous and smiling and basking in his solitude. Here was a more mysterious and possibly overwhelming part of the cove. With many, many high spars dangling anxiously above the waters and the rare haunting sound echoing from a tiny cave at the very top-- the gallery was absolutely terrifying and bound to cause death. Michael, however, persisted, fear almost nonexistent at one glance at his exterior. 

The boy did not have very long before he had to return back home. So he must make the best of his activity. He walked along the wet stones of the room, smiling as he saw a Michael sized hole just to the left of his vision, faint faint purple seeping out of its darkness. The sounds of shimmering, almost _magical_ noises sung sweet notes into his ears. He clutched his black leather satchel to his chest and, a calm smile present on his features, made quiet splashes as he approached the glow.  He shook off a dripping foot, though it hardly lowered the level of chills biting his ankles, and stepped into the room of Crystals.

He looked up, already so used to the intense structure of the dead pit room. And instantly, he sat down, piles and gatherings and bouquets of purple, purple crystals, all dazzling and sparkling in every pocket of the room. 

Crystals.

He quickly took off the satchel, throwing the straps onto the black stone, and inched closer to a pile of pointed, holographic treasures. The rocks were in every bit of this cave, no matter where you turn, yet, this room, the teenager felt, was where most of the power resided. There was a tingly presence that just fulfilled a sense of calm within him every time he settled down here.

That was one of the reasons he liked to sit in this cave; to relax and hinder just a few of his big responsibilities. School, his future occupation, whatever it may be. He held a palm to his chest, grasping a piece of the magic stone that he gladly wore around his neck.

Securely wrapped in an ‘x’ of rope, it held that wonderful, amethyst crystal that Michael kept so dear to him. It was a strange necklace; one that was crafted quite poorly and an insult to a jeweler yet a work of beauty to a small child. 

He did not know much at all about these wonderful stones, other than the fact that he was constantly provided with the comfort of home whenever he was in their presence. Mell’s thoughts jumped to a slightly more unsettling idea; consisting of his lower than average ability to perform spells. He could not deny or hide the fact that he was indeed a _weak_ Warlock —  one that had little to no training and who did not reach his Mother’s goal of a powerful Witch.

He was aware of her wish, yet, she did not push it all onto him. She always had tried to hide the slight disappointment she felt to encourage her son-- yet, it was not so easy to fool him when it came to negativity.

He was always on his own, in school especially.

He was not inclined to follow the school’s social hierarchy. Why must there be more, if, they all were already separated into social hierarchies _outside_ of their education? It mattered little to him that he was not included in a very positive list.

He was alone, and a stranger to all his peers.

Michael had wondered sometimes that if his former best friend had not become a Prince, could he be an outcast along with him?

It was a silly thought to think of the Royal years after he had left. Mell had not always paid attention to the King Squip and his son’s achievements over the years of ruling Middleborough. He managed to stray his eyes away from Rolan Newspapers and refuse to bathe in the annoyance he felt whenever he saw his old friend, Prince Jeremy Heere, bask in the Royalty that he had once dreamed of while Michael stayed in this village with teenagers who barely care about the failed Witch.

The teenager grinned, and shut his eyes. Michael Mell had these wonderful Crystals now; who listened and calmed him no matter the circumstance. They blessed him with zero judgement, and always served to be something wonderful for him.

His ears picked up that shimmering sound the Crystals growing around the cove echoed. How absolutely magical. He hugged himself for a moment, closed his eyes, and exhaled a long breath.

He began to let the stress of his life take over his mind; the fact that he was not a strong witch, a very weak one compared to his powerful bloodline, his inability to move on and let go, the underlying fear he sometimes carried within him that a human would pass him and accuse him of being a witch working for the devil, as they sometimes liked to believe while they praised Element Magis and put them on this high pedestal. His few acquaintances during school, though he was not always bothered, he sometimes encountered that orange haired boy, Ashe, who could perform the cruelest acts had Michael not been careful to tiptoe around him.

 And what could Michael do? It would be a bad omen, casting a spell on him. Why, he’d most likely be deemed the problem. Or maybe he is overthinking; his teachers has not shown him any kind of disrespect when it came to him being a Warlock.

Suffice to say, Ashe did not enjoy Michael’s company– since he was a child, and since his memory had become fuzzy. Strange, however, that his fellow villagers had proven to be more affected by this occurrence than Mike. 

He may have vaguely remembered the Golden Boy, had he not encountered that sycamore tree, engraved and owned with both of their names… and the pain of his decision to partake in this new life with a King.

Michael jerked forward, chest collapsing onto his knees and his heart thudding in pain against his rib cage. Oh, how unnatural it felt; how it felt… not right for his own muscle to do that to him. 

Jeremy _had_ left, that was correct, voluntarily as well, and entranced by the gold and diamonds and sapphires he had not witnessed as an extremely poor child. Interesting how most chose fame and fortune over care and kindness.

It’s been years, and he is still holding on to that dreadful, appalling ball of grief. 

Michael squeezed his fists, teeth automatically grinding into each other. His mood had shifted drastically, and, without really staring at anything besides his bag, he fished out a thick blunt, filled with marijuana and _sure_ to absolutely allow him to be calmer in this already peaceful relaxation cove.

There was no point in attempting to perform _Ignium_ , as, conveniently there lay a lighter nearly void of lighter fluid. He carefully thought of the after, practicing this cursed, yet easy spell that he sometimes still struggled to get correct as simple as it may seem.

He flicked the black lighter on, placing the drug between his fingers and pressing the light to the butt.

He inhaled, and exhaled, relishing in the way his lips produced smoke and freed it toward the amethyst Crystals. His eyes peered at each individual stone, glowing like flashlights onto his skin.

He grinned, and then brought the blunt once more to his warm lips. 

The boy slowly let his back relax, leaning onto the floor of the cove. Its cold surface brought goosebumps to his skin, yet, he fluttered his eyes shut, and blew out the heavy smoke from his mouth. 

Michael thought of his life, how it has always revolved around him spending his time in this cave and wondering if he could get any new information on these strangely magical and powerful Crystals, yet, he’d end up spending his school nights here, scribbling away at his assigned homework or staring at the cover of beginner spell books he’d never come around to study. He did not always have the time to expand his research, rather, he’d doodle and scribble slightly interesting “discoveries” about them.

His mother had not always recognized where he’d gone, as her late night works often kept her mind occupied and her hand cramped with a pen and cramped with heaps of magic.

If she had the time to notice and worry, his excuse would often mention he worked on projects late at the local library, where a good number of assigned books from school lived.

Michael inhaled more of the drug, his emotions as relaxed as can be. Oh, how the teenager felt so free, free, _free._

More often than not, the seventeen year old could stay as late until the effects of marijuana settled in, and he would lay still, for hours or minutes. His stomach had always alerted him, raging every second and demanding he stuff a bite of the nearest meal down his esophagus for him to enjoy. His mouth too gave him notice that he was in fact, high. His tongue could feel around in the chambers of the driest mouth within the cave. His throat and inner cheeks would feel as barren as a desert

Eat he did of course. A golden crisp apple, sucked down to the core, and a greatly savory cheese pastry from the prestigious bakery downtown. Perhaps he’d snag his teeth on Mother’s beef stew and forbidden hard candies.

Those fits of hunger and raging cottonmouth were always a negative to this drug. Those, and the horrid visions if the grams he purchased were from an especially suspicious dealer. The hallucinations were always so unpleasant. He recalled himself once standing, slipping a hand toward a swirling portal of purple right in front of him, reaching and calling for him, while muffled voices attacked his brain over and over.

Oh, how _those_ were absolutely dreadful. Everything was exceedingly fast, exceedingly speedy. 

He smoked the backwood quicker as his behavior doubled its antsiness. Dirt scrubbed under yellow fingernails, tan hands touched with purple light, and a sweater smelling divinely of marijuana and wood, his digits tapped absentmindedly against the stone floor.

The effects were indeed settling in, and so, his fingers ceased their hold on the blunt, and he tossed it aside, bright, bloodshot eyes wide, wide wide, admiring the huge ceiling.

A smile flourished on his young expression.

Climbing out of the cave was never a chore.

Michael shrugged his satchel back onto his shoulder and stretched a palm out. The moon had taken its turn to guard the land, and the atmosphere outside of the cove was ridiculously chilling. With the stars barely providing light in the forest, and the quiet “who?” of the owls, fear was slowly etching its way into the young man’s nervous system. He breathed in, quietly, and spoke, _Ignium_ , to his free palm. The teen waited for something to happen, but grew uneasy when it did not.

He despised his ability when it got like this.

 _Lumine praesta_. The moment his lips finished pushing out those words, spheres or . . . orbs of orange, yellow, and red gnited above his fingertips, bright and blinding and exposing the path before him. The balls swiveled over each other, appearing as little orbs of the stars. And did not touch his skin at all. The heat of it was barely knowledgeable against the surface of his palm. A layer of protection always seemed to instil itself between himself and the magic, allowing him to easily control the mass.

He cupped his left hand around the spell, walking quite fast, eager to escape the woods.

The walk back was always way too long, dragged out even longer late at night. 

If he were to die tonight, he’d possibly apologize for being such a horrid Warlock and sullying his own family’s name by simply lacking the ability to be what his family is; a loving group of powerful beings.

He should have brought Marley with him. That beautiful being quickly destroyed chunks of lengthy time it took for the boy to get back to his home.

He recalled feeling as high as the clouds, still feeling powerful, and now, he still felt tall, yet not as much as he had been in the cavern. Every bit of anxiety felt washed away, and there was a smooth feeling residing in him. Perhaps any halfheartedly told joke could become the best thing he’s heard in years, and maybe he felt disembodied.

Occasionally,

—his mind could conjure up a scenario in how he’d imagine how the young Prince is doing, though, it is quite a pain to attempt to think of how he treasures his life without him.

How he had left him here, to sleep all alone.

It hardly matters anymore. Such trivial thoughts are obviously a result of inhaling plants.

 

* * *

 

             As the seventeen year old watched his abode come into view, he dropped the magic from his palms, which instantly dissolved into the atmosphere; changing state from a warm, orange hot glow, into cool grey, whispers of the wind.

His leg muscles ached, and veins energy decreased significantly having using his power throughout that tedious walk. The eerie sounds of chirping crickets, and quiet “ _hoo_ ” of the late night sky altered Michael’s mood in such ways. He blinked tiredly, shifting his gaze up just slightly to peer at the perfectly crafted wonder of shimmering stars dotting the blackness.

Bundles of white, forming into meticulous constellations; but, what had specifically caught his sight, were two large stars, a burning red, and a cool, deep blue, shimmering impossibly so, just near one another. They sparkled differently from the rest of the constellations, invoking a sense into Mike.

He returned his focus back to the backyard of his home, knowing perfectly well that this time he would not have to sneak into that round window of his. It was absolutely incredible, that just years ago, his body just did not have the stamina to push itself up into the window of his room. 

His house was quite larger than many others, after all, his family of medicinal practices _did_ acquire much money, especially with family members spreading the Mell Magical Medicine around different kingdoms, across continents and countries, and spreading to dangerous counties. 

In other words, his family is rich, which is the result of hard work expanding throughout long generations of the Mells. 

He walked closer to the grey home, quite lovely and exquisite compared to many other commoners’ homes.

His Mom, a powerful medical Witch, was home.

He walked around the property, passing by the wrap-around porch bestowing hanging, swinging lit lanterns. Michael climbed up the few steps, soft footsteps thudding against the wood, and stopping at his front door. 

A perk of being a Witch; a child learns from a young age better ways to enforce security in their home, whether it’s learning spells that enforce basic needs such as . . . summoning a personal flashlight, or using magic to cook food safely or float on a bubbling cloud of green substance as a baby, which, most Witch children do. Why, it has to have been such a hassle to care for young children like so! However, Michael learned that at a young age, his Mother taught him a way to temporarily break the spell that protected the Mell Home from intruders, was to simply whisper a special word to the front door. The word would grant him access to enter, and as soon as the child would, the door shut, and the spell reinforced itself.

It was a foolproof, yet simple spell. And because it was so easy, it was somewhat shameful for it being one of the very few spells the teenager knew.

A seventeen year old like him could have gone on to greater things! Introduce himself to the world of Magic, explore his own kind! Completely devote himself to studying medicinal practices, or, ghastly wicked Magic . . . maybe ally with Magis - ones who bend elements and embody magic. Rather, they tame the elements of the universe, and Witches, old school, tame chemicals that reside in the universe and take it back into the world, holding as much as they can.

Though Witches may spin a ball of say . . . _chemicals_ in their palms, and speak words that form said ball of chemicals, they are more nature based than Magis, who, are exceedingly modern and in tune with their elements, whereas Witches were known to be _reckless_ and documented quite a few times, _murderous_.

The ones who hold Fire, Air, Earth, Metal, Wood, Lightning, and Water. . . They have held more a kindred reputation than the latter. And . . . one who holds more than one element of the Earth has proved to be even more powerful than a Witch and two Magis, though it is incredibly, _incredibly_ rare to witness such a graceful figure. Vox Magis are perhaps one of the rarest forms, as they can communicate with their elements in a way no creature could ever replicate.

He, terribly tired, and _starved out of his mind_ , practically drained of much energy due to casting a spell that was beyond the time he should hold it, the door opened, and the teenager entered his abode. He was welcomed with the main room, a chandelier bleeding orange light all over the room. The Warlock, on routine, pulled off his muddy shoes and placed them on the black rack. He glanced toward the living room, the corners of his lips lifting up at the sight of Mother Mell, passed out on the velvet loveseat. Her blanket was the letters of patients and families, as well as paperwork yet to be completed or in the midst of completion. Her tall, raggedy hat had replaced both of her shoes, covering her feet well. Her eyebrows were already creased in stress, lips twitching slightly, and gloved fingers twitching as if performing Magic. In front of the couch was a cauldron, bubbling disturbingly, full of shiny, holographic liquid. It was a spell the child had always seen cooking in that pot. Beside that pot were textbooks of Old Magic, Floral Magic, Science of Magic, Magic of Science, and Mell: Book of Secret Recipes.

Michael sighed, and walked as quietly as possible past the couch toward the stairs to his room. He halted to a stop, then peered over his shoulder at his Mom. She was obviously incredibly stressed;  after all, such a hardworking woman _does_ need rest every now and then, _especially_ one who constantly cares for incredibly sick humans and creatures across the land.

He turned around, and tiptoed over to the woman, pressing a kiss to her head.

“Goodnight, Mom,” Mell whispered, and continued on with his short quest to his room.

The teenager glanced at the abundance of picture frames and framed awards shaping the living room. It was _filled_ with almost ancient awards; newspapers congratulating the Mell family, human Doctors congregating, Water nurse specialists, Pixie Dust Doctors . . . whatever. But they _all_ shook hands with a young woman who looked incredibly similar to Mother Mell, yet was obviously not. A newspaper article had spoken about the Mell Family’s outstanding accomplishment of discovering a cure to a disease that plagued multiple towns: Dragon Scales. One framed article praised _Mell Sorcery Health Clinic_. 

There were even framed pictures of shape-shifter accident survivors standing with Mother Mell in front of the clinic, smiling in a much more warm way that did not look staged. There were a few pictures of Michael as a little boy, and one of the young Mother Mell stirring a pot of floral serum. Her skin was glowing then; and she acquired a Witch’s hat. Her hair was much longer here, flowing over the radiating pot of flowers, unlike now. In the present, her once raven, silk waterfall tresses were cut down to a stunning pixie cut, allowing the mother to appear dangerous; full of fire.

He passed those images and started up the spiral staircase to the second floor of their home. The hallway was dim, and his eyes were troubling to adjust to the darkness.

He approached his room, twisting the knob and entering his first personal cave.

His eyes were bright red, and his lips felt chapped and undesirable, and his stomach was growling at him for _something._

Before he could feel reality pull itself away from his heightened mind, he reached for the stash of leftovers on his desk, like a starved animal, horking it all down. He was terribly, hungry, terribly tired, and could feel his energy fading quickly by the minute.

Michael perched himself onto the cool feel of his mattress, teeth grating against the meat of freezing chicken, and mashed potatoes. He looked like an absolute wolf, snatching with his mouth a handful of baby corn and more meat.

The more he feasted, the more starved the teenager seemed to become; result of that blissful drug. God, he was just about tempted to storm his way to the kitchen, swallow up the craving of chocolate and carbohydrates.

Yet, his intense need for his pillow and world of dreams was winning him over rather than his own cravings.

He gave in, and let his body collapse onto the blanket, onto a plate of mashed potatoes.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support. Every comment gives me the excitement and love needed to continue this story.


	3. Attention! Menlo Royal Wedding!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while. I’m sorry. Reread chapter 1 and 2 if you haven’t already.

             Just two months ago, the Prince had the world’s worst hangover after drinking himself nearly to death when Christine Canigula announced her marriage. There were servants desperately pleading for him to drink a few glasses of water-- even if he _dreaded_ the feeling of it--  and he pleaded for the love of him, to tighten those curtains so he may not encounter his mortal enemy of the friend in his kidneys (the sun)! It was an endless, spiraling sensation of nausea, almost like it was knocking against the backs of his eyes and finding every single way to just make him feel absolutely disgusting. He was compelled to vomit all his sorrows into the toilet, or do absolutely nothing. More importantly, he vowed to never drink another glass of alcohol again (though he knows he will not abide by that advice when he recovers from this dreadful illness). He barely moved out of that bed, though he did puke in a toilet toward the nearest bathroom when forced out of bed by his agitated father. Squip who was too busy getting ready to go on a trip to discuss trades with a distant kingdom to notice why his son vomited in the first place. 

Oh, how terribly _painful_ it was to try and continue his studies with a blasted headache, and the urge to puke every minute as he forced himself to glub down cups of water. He knew eventually he would be cured of this negative side effect, and struggled in deep distress through the dizzying calculus problems.

 _That_ was many nights ago.

Now, he could not find it in himself to feel as sick as hungover Jeremy Morris; and felt it impossible to be jovial once he stepped out of bed today. Presently, his head felt utterly heavy. Like an anchor- or a huge mass of lead, stuck in his skull. Those days sometimes occurred even without alcohol, and it was absolutely unpleasant. 

The Prince stayed a few extra hours in the circular mattress. His conscience had been well aware of the sun’s lack of appearance since three in the morning, and his eyes stayed glued to the wall straight ahead of him. For this time, he could not bear to move. There was a small wrenching throb, pitted deep in his stomach, and it halted him in place. His back arched over his hips, and his knees faced the ceilings. Miah’s pale long arms extended out, hands gripping his ankles with ample force. The dark circles under his eyes were to be smothered with a concealer, surely. Princes were supposed to be beautiful. And Jeremy was not beautiful right now.

He could barely register the knock at his door before a man in a white chef-like attire approached the confined Jeremy Morris with a silver cart slid through his doorway.

“Your wonderful, Royal Highness,” he praised, bowing dutifully. Jeremy raised his eyes, shifting his gaze toward the man who had held a hand to his belly. 

He wore square glasses and a red beard; long specks of red decorating his chin in a strange sort of fashion.

“Oh, um, hello Lep. Thank you very much,” the Prince replied in his somewhat raspy voice. Lep the server smiled pearly white teeths at his superior. 

“Not a problem at all, my Prince. Please, enjoy this lovely breakfast. You are on a journey to your closest trade partner! The carriage ride is indeed a tedious one. You will want to savor as much as you can. Very good morning my Prince, and good day.” He had placed a foldable table right alongside Jeremy’s bed, putting a silver tray right atop the table. A cup of steaming hot tea sit next to the vase of flowers next to the plate of scones and grilled chicken, vegetables and other foods that are heart healthy to keep his appearance. And of course, a glass of orange juice.

His eyes wandered toward the grilled chicken. His stomach lurched in discomfort at the sight of it. No symphony of hunger wailed through him, instead, he found himself wishing the meal away.

After all, today he would be attending a new Royal, and her husband’s wedding today. The nausea like feeling resonated within his gut, unsure if he could take seeing Christine Canigula’s happiness and kisses blessing another. Prince Jake, who has now taken over after his parents, is extremely lucky to have such a wonderful angel in his grasp. Her midnight hair always shone so brightly underneath the bar lights, and her smile could rip Jeremy in half with the beauty of it. 

That deflated him.

He put his food aside, instead crawling down the silk sheets to fetch his unfinished letter toward the soon to be new Queen. He had yet to wish her luck as she ascends to a new chapter of her life, nor did he write an informative essay consisting of the new tragic, mandatory nuisances she would be forced to endure.

He was eager to inform her of his experiences as a Prince.

So he began to write his letter once more.

He fetched a fountain pen, laced with gold and silver, and pressed the point against the parchment. His limbs crawled back to the folding table, careful not to crumple the paper, and placed his work atop the wood.

Jeremy stared at his scrawled cursive, which resembles more of chicken scratch than a Royal letter. He had written half a paragraph, full of greetings and reminiscing her past as an actress, and wondering how her father had reacted to this change.

The Prince wrote down his thoughts, his feelings, and as much happiness he could squeeze out of him to show her that he truly was happy that she found somebody to love, and someone to cherish her life with. He encouraged her to speak to her new people, to not let the wealth get to her head, and always think of her actress days, where she was the most glamorous thing of the night. He wrote to her to always write whenever she could, though he was not very sure that she may have time, with all the responsibilities of being a _Queen_ and having to undo the damage the previous Dillingers have cast upon their land.

He wrote what he felt, wrist aching and swelling with each farewell word he rushed.

In his heart, he knew that this may very well be the last time he could speak to this lady, because of the business of her kingdom, the role she has taken, and the children she may bear or adopt. How she must give all the love in her heart to the citizens, and how she and her yet to be husband must discuss all the important policies they shall inflict upon Menlo.

Each word pouring from himself; it was all a farewell; a goodbye to the girl he was supposed to marry, in his heart.

He paused, for a moment, looking up at his ticking clock to notice the limited time he had left before they would leave for the long journey into Menlo Kingdom.

Pajamas still remained on his body, and did not have much time to dress himself accordingly. He looked over at his breakfast, which had grown cold during the time of his writing.

The boy was not very hungry this morning, and the time to dress was minimal to none. Jeremy resorted to pushing open just slightly, one of his windows and let his meal fly freely down the many stories onto the stone path leading into the statue sanctuary. 

The Prince placed the tray back onto the table, right on time for three knocks at his door and two people coming inside without waiting for permission to enter. Only one person would do such thing-- his father, King Squip, and trailing behind him, Head of Royal Guards, Rich Goranski. 

“Hey, Slugger,” Squip greeted. He himself was wrapped with his strangely patterned cloak as Goranski stood still with an orange rod clenched in his grasp. The sight of it oddly disturbed Jeremy, so he shifted his gaze back to his father. The King’s electrifying eyes narrow together as they see his teenager still mobile in his undergarments instead of Royal attire.

“I see you are not ready,” his Father starts. “Timing is everything, Jeremy. If we do not arrive at the specific time we always do at events, Jeremy, then we appear unorganized, disheveled, a kingdom who has no sense of direction. And we do not want to be regarded as an unstable kingdom, now do we? Menlo’s reputation is hanging on a few threads of positivity ever since _that_ fiasco. I am not allowing you to bring us to that point. After I am done speaking to you about tonight, you will wash and dress up immediately-- no pacing your room, the servants will clean and take care of everything-- and when you are finished, report nowhere else but to Goranski. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Jeremy replied, half-listening to his dad’s stern, commanding tone. His eyes drifted off toward the orange rod, but then he stopped looking and lowered his gaze to his lap.

“Don’t be disgusting, look at me and sit up straighter,” snapped the King. Jeremy obeyed at the speed of light, staring straight into his painful stare.

“Now, Prince Jake’s gala is special. It is his coronation as well as his official wedding to peasant Christine Canigula. I have yet to meet her, but I am rather surprised Jake’s advisors allowed them to continue their affair. I suppose that if it has not harmed the reputation of Menlo any further, than I applaud this. Though, a girl with no money, I can imagine how difficult it is to bring up the economy of their kingdom . . .”

“Because it is such a prestigious and honorable event, we also have to look our best. I’ve brought you a special suit--” 

“Another?”

“--that was crafted carefully by highly-praised designers all over the world. It is extremely fashionable, one that will surely catch the eye of many guests. Most importantly, it compliments perfectly with our Kingdom colors _and_ the shape of our crowns!”

“What happened to the other one?” Jeremy spoke up, recalling the absolutely tightening suit.

“That one is not nearly as posh as this one. With you wearing that drab thing, surely people may mistake you for a dreary commoner! We don’t want that. We want the lucky commoners attending the ball to heed you and your exquisite attire, one that people may even mistake _you_ for King Jake.”

“But . . . Dad, isn’t it, like, his _night?_ His coronation, his wedding, and kingdom?” Jeremy inquired, eyebrow raised in confusion. He clenched his fists, already feeling the anxiety riddling its way in his fingers. His father quirked both eyebrows, folding his arms and clicking his tongue. 

“Of course. But, still, us wearing this just proves that we are the better, richer Kingdom, hm, Jeremy?”

“Right,” he murmured.

“What did I tell you about mumbling, Jeremy?” Squip grilled sternly.

“Yes, Dad,” the teen enunciated at higher volume. The King nodded as a response, eyes shifting inquisitively around the large room. 

“. . . Your new suit. I’ve ordered a large deposit of Vucana wool from Peru. It was sewn and knitted accordingly to your size--” _That’s false. He always adjusts the size tighter than I can breathe._ “--lined with gold and we’ve added a rare cut of sapphire never seen before, until now. And ah, I am proud to have gotten my hands on Muga silk, a large quantity of it makes your cape flourish. It is absolutely astounding, and will flow around you to catch the attention of many. I have a similar fashion, though I wear less of our signature blue, and more of our black, whereas you shall wear more of the blue and gold-- and do not forget to choose the diamond choker this time, the one dotted with golden nuggets and . . .” 

The new vocabulary of what was imported from where, what famous Winter Witch stitched which, whoever’s pixie enchanted what and what exotic animal made up which part of his pants swirled in his mind with difficulty. He could not retain in this nugatory notice, but knew that he’d be fitted in this for the ball, surrounded by others who would gape at how on earth Squip managed to get what, and Jeremy would nod along at their astonishment of the rare items embedded in his clothing. The King would drone on and encapsulate their stupefied expressions with simply a flourish of exaggerated words and wave his hands as if importing these luxuries were as simple as crossing the street to buy groceries.

 

“. . . meeting your future wife.”

 

The Prince’s head picked up, dizzying eyes pinned on the figure just in front of him.

“Wife?” His father swept the cloak he wore about, and his sharp eyes flared.

“That, is what I have said. It would benefit you to listen,” he spoke brusquely. Jeremy recoiled and winced, feeling a cold tingle crawl up his spine. “When you turn eighteen, exactly six months from then will be your Royal Wedding. I’ve already discussed with her parents the details, and they’ve agreed. Both of our kingdoms intermingling will provide enormous, unfathomable benefits, Jeremy. The result will be greater than everything. We will be _exceptionally_ _powerful!_ ” The King spoke the last two words with such force, and such a dirty gleam in his eyes that was so quick, he shook his head and regained professional composure. The buildup of such a speech startled the two in the room quite a bit, and the Prince moved like a skittish cat, unintentional.

His stomach lurched, ultimately _hating_ the idea, refusing, spitting, begging him to not go through with this marriage. Jeremy would rather vomit every night and nearly kiss death twenty-eight times from alcohol poisoning than have his own wedding decided for him, kissing a woman he would never love.

“Father,” he uttered out hopelessly.

" _What_ did I say about enunciating!” gnashed the words from his teeth.

“I— I can’t,” he tried to speak louder, but the words came out a stutter again as he tried with shaking limbs to voice his opinion. His mind was reeling with dizziness. “Wedding. I can’t. I don’t—” 

Squip’s jaw tightened, perfectly shaped eyebrows rising, then coming together to furrow, and his electrifyingly blue eyes seemed to spark with lightning. Jeremy’s limbs would not listen to the command from his brain to stop convulsing.

“I am afraid I simply can’t understand. You’re stuttering and your syllables are difficult to make out. What I _know_ I heard, was that you will be very pleased to meet your fiance. And you will _not_ continue to poison this kingdom by embarrassing me. Like you constantly do. You will do as I say. And you will not cause any more ugliness to thrive, otherwise there will be consequences.”

He turned around, the heavy thud of his footsteps creating unnerving echoes to bounce around the room.

“Go talk some sense into this _embarrassment,_ ” commanded the King, snatched the orange rod out of Rich’s hands, and left the bedroom in a state of despondency. Jeremy sat, fingers twitching, and jaw tightening, eyes burning straight at his wall. His lungs sucked in air at a rapid pace through his nose, and lips slammed fiercely into a straight line.

The room flooded with silence for at least two minutes, and the teenage bore dry, painful eyes into the wall of his room, too terrified to move, otherwise he may break down, which he could never do.

“Yo, fuckin’ dads, right?” cut through the thick quiet, and Jeremy snapped to attention. He looked with a pained expression toward Rich, sporting an awkward smile and thumbs up.

Jeremy wiped the sorrow off, instead, offering a half-grin.

“Don’t . . . don’t worry. We’ll get you lookin’ pretty so all the cool people out there will get wet as soon as you step in the room.”

Jeremy retracted in surprise, overwhelmed by a blush that heated up his whole face. “Huh—”

Goranski burst out into a fit of laughter. “Ha! Jeremy! That’s priceless! Your face is hella red! Yo, come on man, we can do a whole bunch of shit before we gotta set out.” He beckoned him over, analyzing his still emotional expression but made no comment on that, determined to wake him up from this dazed, sullen state. 

The King was brutal- no arguments there, but that did not mean Rich had to follow. He witnessed the skittishness of Jeremy, which he isn’t too sure anyone outside of the castle has seen. 

“Don’t think about your dad, huh? Just think about the hot girls that are gonna be there. Or make fun of all the weirdos. It’ll be cool,” he spoke with enthusiasm, leading the Prince down the hallway. “Go take a bath, then get dressed.”

 

* * *

 

 

The palace was infested with snooty Royals and important figures.

It was crawling with these bugs and insects; absolutely disgusting, and Jeremy never wanted to cleanse himself even more than now whenever a figure who had a pretentious laugh clapped him on the shoulder in glee after guffawing at some joke another person had made.

The unending trip to the King’s coronation was nearly enough to explode a bomb in the young Prince’s mind. It had been eight hours of carriage riding and few stops in between to feed the horses, clean their hooves, and refresh them with water. The Prince was not allowed to urinate in the wilderness.

 Sitting next to his father was a bit of a pain, as King Squip would often remind him, “Don’t look so disgusting,” or “Do I have to remind you? Or are you reverting back to your ugly ways?”

During the long ride, Jeremy wore silk pajamas and would change them the next day when the gala was to begin. The King wore his strangely patterned cloak.

A trusted assistant was to be momentarily taking over the throne whilst the two Royals were out of town. Squip allowed his son to accompany him to witness a coronation like Jake’s before he as well became of age to take the throne. Guard Goranski had also accompanied them, as the King very much liked this small guard. The Royals, had managed a stay in a renowned inn near the castle, all booked with Royal families and political figures.

The gala would go as follows: After the VIP guests are let in, _then_ the lucky chosen citizens of Menlo enter. Outside of the castle, most of the citizens dedicate a week long festival in honor of Jake and Christine’s elopement and ascent to monarchs. Middleborough’s representatives would only stay for the ceremony and leave the next day, though Jeremy itches to partake in some of the festival activities-- Sbarro pizza is sold by street vendors, archery games, theatre events-- _all_ games he wished to try. 

The ceremony would take place in one of Jake’s largest and thriving botanical gardens, the crisp November air providing soft chills on the guests. The clouds were beautifully puffy and the skies a lovely blue. The wedding begins with a typical hors d’oeuvre, Iranian beluga fish caviar atop ample amounts of crème fraîche served with white bread crackers made fresh from Prince Jake’s finest chefs. Of course, garnished with chives. After they are served all around, alongside thin glasses of champagne, rosé, or if anyone so chose, simply a glass of sparkling water. The young Prince was well aware that his father would chastise him if he ruined their reputation by being caught sipping alcohol, so for the time being he settled for the carbonated spring water. Exquisite dinner portions are then served that makes the commoners marvel with gaping faces. Next, of course, momentary mingling and chatting between guests before the main event-- the wedding. Moments after, the giant crowds hush down to witness both Jake and Christine are declared King and Queen, in which the commoners usually cheer quite loudly, as the snooty bigwigs clap softly.

 Moments after, the guests move into the cathedral-like ballroom. The cake is cut and served, a dessert buffet is present, and it leaves idle time for more chatter and guests revel with one another, dance, or drink. The popular event (usually to showcase how much better Royals were than the commoners) consisted of many high-class figures to come along the dance floor and engage in a circle of waltzing. After, the party usually skyrockets from a formal setting, to a drinking party-- resulting in many scandalous news slapping the page of Rolan News.

Now, Jeremy sat at a seat reserved for trade kingdoms, where he often caught people from across the giant lawn looking at him and whispering in awe. It startled him to no end, of course, he did not show it. Clearly, they were amazed by the material in which his clothing was fabricated of. It suffocated him to no end, and his choker felt like it was blocking his airway. The jewels thrown upon him weighed down his body. The gold lined suit caused women and designers to nearly faint in bewilderment. True to his word, his father wore a suit of a similar caliber, colored black and instead anointed with a fur cloak draped over his shoulders. Prominent figures alike swooped in like vultures onto the king, pestering him with sweetly-toned voices about the material of the fur, and how it looked similar to the fur of an extinct animal residing in Peru just two-hundred years ago!

He wondered how his father remained so patient with them, pulling off a calm, collected and cool stature. Another lady with a figure hugging dress droned on and on about how glorious Prince Jeremy appeared. She commented on his elegantly styled brown locks, the smooth complexity of his skin, how the sapphires made him much more beautiful. That silk-spun cape flowing around his knees was absolutely brilliant! And the wool that made up his suit? Never-before seen until now! Even Royal Guard Goranski’s attire outmatched even the most renowned stars in this room! The Morris Kingdom had severely outdone themselves! 

The King stood, with Goranski standing utterly motionless with a firm, unreadable expression behind him, red lock of hair standing out from his black and blue outfit. Guests continued to talk to him, whilst other kingdom representatives peered at Squip in a panic, and going on to mingle with more lower-class guests in an attempt to win over more love than the Squip.  
Jeremy knew that his father was holding this facade for a moment, just to soak in the constant commendation these envious party-goers gave. He played absentmindedly with the silk of his gloves before picking up the cracker on his plate and biting into the crème fraîche beluga. It was creamy and salty, quite flavorful-- but it was never Jeremy’s favorite. He turned his head, looking over the rose thorn bushes at the townsfolk savoring the sweet taste that they have never experienced before. An elf’s features lit up, slowly grinding up the appetizer with a star-like expression.

He took a sip of the sparkling water while drowning in his own thoughts. A hush fell over the crowd, and he peered up, just in time for the soft ivory tickles of a song he did not quite know. Jake Dillinger stood with excellent posture at the altar-- a glamorous arch veiled in white lace and decorated with violets. Guests sat politely-- even the people surrounding his dad had scattered back to their assigned seats. A Priest, possibly the most ancient man Jeremy Morris had witnessed, placed himself just behind the arch.

He looked at his glass of sparkling water right as the quiet gasp of the crowd took in Christine Canigula. He didn’t dare look up. He knew that there was no doubt her entire look was completely breathtaking. Jeremy simply refused the curious ache to peek at what dress they had her wear-- whether it was silk imported from China, or mulberry silk from the larvae of mulberry silkworms. Was her hair teased to no end? Her lips painted magenta, or perhaps still a flirty red? The stunning almond shape of those beaming orbs surely must have been accentuated by flicks of thick eyeliner and carefully calculated pats of eyeshadow.

The Priest had spoke, long and drawn out-- like a machine that had not operated in years had just started to come to life again. Jeremy sipped long and carefully, the water from the glass, popping carbonated bubbles in his stomach. 

“I do.”

The deafening sound of claps and cheers insulted his heart. _They’re applauding them because Jake succeeded in winning the perfect girl. Applauding for_ him. _And not for an ugly loser like you._

He clapped his hands, just to blend in, until came the moment that every person longed for—the coronation.

No, he still could not stare— Staring at such a striking woman with eyes of longing while she is next to her husband is _completely_ impertinent. _Another sip of sparkling water, God, where the hell can I get some whiskey?_ And shocked breaths. He eyed his hands, smothered with silk.

 

“—King Jake and Queen Christine Dillinger of Menlo.”

 

* * *

 

The violinist had suddenly picked up a slow, melodic tune, in which the rest of the band followed. As the upbeat tempo slowed down to a gentle, romantic song, ladies and men in silk and gems turned to one another and focused on the lessons they had learned in ballroom dancing class. The room was slightly smaller than Middleborough Castle’s own ballrooms, however still cavernous nonetheless. Jeremy thought back, to just a few moments ago as his father pinched his ear painfully for how horribly he screwed up— ogling the white tablecloth and fiddling with his fingers was unquestionably disgraceful. Surely people have saw him and scoffed at his attire, picking him to be some lucky Royal, simply a peasant in rich clothes who did not matter because the way he was acting, gawking at his lap instead of the couple, was _improper_ and _embarrassing._  He gritted his teeth at the pain.

Now, Jeremy was dreading this moment while music poured itself into every crack and crevice of the room. If he was left alone, without a lady in his arms, he would look like a fool. His eyes scanned the enormous ballroom, glowing in magenta lights. He felt his heartstrings tug slightly at the sight of Queen Christine and her husband, King Jake. They looked absolutely dazzling, and Jeremy felt his insides burn just a little bit and his stomach slowly mixing up his dinner.

He was good at certain emotions. Sometimes swallowing down that sadness assisted you in appearing stronger-- something that was excellent for a Prince like him to do.

There were conversations all over; ranging from talks about the Princess—“What a surprise! A peasant!” to daily news— “Middleborough’s Magis seem to have disappeared lately?”

The young Prince caught a duke from some kingdom he couldn’t pronounce peek at Christine Canigula and whisper to his dance partner. His partner--chubby woman who embraced thick layers of glittery pink lipstick on top of her tiny round lips-- giggled and gingerly raised a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter and look back at Christine.

They were laughing at her. Mocking a “peasant” who was somehow able to acquire the Prince’s hand in marriage as he descends to King. She is bound to cause problems. She is unfit to be Queen. She will be disposed of for another Princess soon.

Jeremy’s mouth parted slightly and his eyes slowly began to swirl with rage. But he pushed it down, because princes are not supposed to do that. They are supposed to play their part, and his part is being a decoration— one for other Royals to _ooh_ and _aah_ at and represent his kingdom and for them to go _Oh I am definitely going to visit this absolutely exquisite kingdom for the summer!_  

Christine wore a lilac colored ballroom gown, little ruffles on her sleeves. The servants have painted her lips a shade of periwinkle and curled her thick black hair into ringlets of beauty. Midnight. It complimented the silver Queen’s crown on her scalp. Her almond eyes were smiling with her teeth as she waltzed along with Jake Dillinger. His brown, short and spiky hair was covered by a new crown—his father’s old crown before the previous Queen and King had run away to who knows where. That golden crown was proud upon the boy’s head. It fit him.

He was tall–very tall– and had to point his head down toward his lady. His eyes were crinkled in amusement, lips stretching to a loving grin. His suit was a collared dress suit (Typical ballroom attire), equipped with a longer cape than Jeremy’s (although his did not create as much of a flourish unlike Jeremy’s)that was a dark magenta and white trousers, stockings, and leather loafers which Jeremy must say, is an off-putting sight! His father would say that leather is unroyal material. 

He had not realized how long he had been standing in the middle of moving bodies until King Squip had nudged his shoulder while leading a tight-faced woman.

Jeremy turned his head to answer his father. Squip excused himself and lingered toward his son, first glancing at the new Royal couple. His eyes roamed their attire.

“King Jake’s shoes are a bit of a surprise. According to the data I’ve acquired since my youth, leather was not always the Royal choice . . . Though, he is a well respected Royal now, so I presume he has a pass.” King’s eyes locked with Jeremy. “Jeremy, you are embarrassing the land of Middleborough. You have not been following proper etiquette as well as you’ve promised, now have you?” He sighed, touching the hairs on his chin. His son was reddening, squeezing his tight shoes tighter as he feared the King’s next words.

But the King looked around the room again, and his eyes settled on a young woman standing off to the side with minor guests. She balanced a glass of red wine in one hand before it being quickly snatched from her by a woman who looked very similar to her. Her expression became irritated, and the little lady’s–sheepish.

King Squip turned back to his son. “Ah, there’s a young woman near the dessert table whom you should ask to dance. That’s Princess Brooke Lohst, and she has an important background which, if my calculations had been correct, could be very beneficial to you when you become King . . .” The man’s eyes glinted and his face scrunched up in concentration. Jeremy’s warped into realization and repulsion at his Dad’s plan. _Brooke Lohst._

“Wait . . . Thats—” 

“Princess Brooke is a very important Royal. And, I’ve come to discuss with her many times before and had informed her of you. Her attitude was–hm, joyful, and excited upon hearing about you. When you become King, it is important to boost your credibility and popularity in the Kingdoms. _Supersize_ your social standing. _Here_ is a popular, credible Royal who likes you. You need to go where she is.”  

The man nudged him aside and quickly blended back into the dancing crowd, snatching the arms of a woman who had bright eyes.

Jeremy paused, knowing the dancing would go on for a while. He looked at the Princess. Her hair was braided beautifully, spilling over her shoulder and decorated with small daffodils. It matched her long, yellow ballroom gown which had sheer sleeves and a large, layered skirt. She stood, hands folded over one another.

Her eyes were blue, bored, and desperate for a kind of attention as men passed her to grab a chocolate eclair from the dessert table.

The boy took his father’s advice, not wanting to set him off for not living up to his etiquette lessons. He strode over to Brooke, gaining her attention when his shadow bloomed over hers.

Jeremy quickly looked over his shoulder to see his father amazingly able to dance so well with women whilst still staring intensely at his son. He nodded his head and finally turned his focus on the woman in front of him, smiling kindly to knock her heart out of her ribs.

 The Prince looked back, seeing Miss Lohst’s face suddenly blush a pink and her eyes slightly wide as she looked up at a Prince with lovely styled hair. Her lips had been parted and she looked absolutely bewildered.

Prince Jeremy bowed, offering his gloved hand to the Princess while performing his gentlemanly act.

“May I have the honor of having a dance with you, Princess Brooke?” he elegantly asked. He felt a small hand slide into his, and her presence come closer to him.

Trying not to sweat, the Prince stood up straight and placed his hand gently on her hip while gently grasping the lady’s hand in his. He pulled her closer, and began waltzing back into the circle on the dance floor.

They stared into one another’s eyes, yet Brooke’s was more lovestruck and Jeremy’s, distracted.

“Hello, Prince Jeremy,” she almost stammered as they twirled around an elderly couple.

Jeremiah’s focus snapped back toward the blonde.

“Evening,” he answered back, stepping to the side with his partner.

“Wow, it’s sweet of you to come with your Dad to see Miss Christine and Prince—I mean King! King Jake.”

Jeremy smiled, eyebrows arched slightly. He laughed nervously and almost clammed up, trying not to show his awkward side that the King refers to constantly as Jeremy 1.0.

“Heh, well, Coronations are big. It would be sucky of me not to see how they worked, right?”

“Right,” Brooke replied. Jeremy twirled her, then put his hand back on her hip. “I’ve heard how King Squip had saved you when you were suffering in that village. You were so lucky, Jer, you must feel so thankful for him.” Jeremiah felt the vile creep up his esophagus. He kept his face blank for a few seconds to process the Princess’ words. Suddenly, the room was a bit dizzying to him, and his mind was pounding hard. He forced the vomit down his throat while waltzing with the lady in a circular motion. Yes, the King _did_ save him, hadn’t he? How else had Jeremy come to be a Royal? He was . . . being kidnapped by someone? It had been such a fuzzy thing; the years before and during his eleven years. Not to mention it brought great burning pain to his brain and spine just _trying_ to remember.

He vaguely remembers that orange rod placed in Squip’s squeezing hand.

Jeremy was indeed thankful for his father though. He was a wonderful king who thrived on his citizens’ happiness. He always pushed Jeremy though to be the perfect Prince, but he could never meet or exceed his expectations. It pained him a lot to hear harsh words come from his dad whenever Jeremy made a small mistake. Though he supposes he should just try harder and God, just _think_ before he begins to do anything. When he does just that, remembering what he should do, then his Dad would praise him, he’d stop calling him “lazy” and “embarrassing”. There is no excuse for his negligence to have Prince mannerisms.

“Jer?” asked an echoey, high and sweet voice.

Jeremy blinked, trying to come back to reality and focused on the blue eyed beauty in front of him. 

He is to marry her when he turns eighteen.

Jeremy looked at Brooke’s pink, soft lips and her smooth skin. He glanced over her blonde fishtail braid and thick eyelashes over her ocean colored eyes.

He could not find an ounce of love in himself for the Princess.

But he could see the love in _her_ eyes.

And he could not hurt her. Nor did he have a choice in marrying her.

Jeremy stopped in his place, forcing the blonde to a halt as well. She blinked her lovely eyes.

“What’s wrong Jer?” she asked. Jeremy slowly loosened his hold on her and looked into her eyes.

“Thank you for the dance, my lady,” he said. “Seriously, I can’t believe I got to dance with a girl who looks like you . . . Please excuse me now.” He turned, catching a glimpse of the Princess’ flushing face and excited grin. She contained her excitement from jumping up and down in that dress.

The boy slowly made his way through dancing bodies, hoping his father would not burn his eyes into the back of his head. There was a huge pit of guilt in his stomach, attempting to tug him back towards his wife. _You have to try harder. You have to impress your father. What will he say when he learns you’ve left Brooke alone?_

 Jeremy walked along the ballroom, trying not to make himself stand out (which was slightly difficult given his circumstances) until he found two large glass doors that led to a balcony that displayed an overview of King Jake’s city. The rounded platform was quite grand— clean white and carved of stone and marble.

The young Prince breathed in a cool breath of cold, autumn air. The seasons were just beginning to change, and the significant temperature drop was the teen’s new favorite. He walked along the stone ground and propped his elbows on the wide railing to stare at the glowing lights of Menlo. The townhomes were gorgeous, and Jeremy swore he could spot a bar in the distance that was illuminated with multiple lanterns.

He felt refreshed, hoping to keep his mind off of whatever happened to his memories at eleven years of age and the pressure of having to marry some Princess he didn’t love. That aching, troublesome hole of guilt building up in his stomach would come creeping back soon, which is what Jeremy is dreading. If he stays too long, his thoughts may drift back to the topic of his father and his straining tasks, but if he could just somehow steal-- _borrow_ \-- a couple bottles of any hard liquor . . . those thoughts could vanish, and he’d be left with the bliss of hazy mind. 

He sighed miserably and hung his head over the rail, wishing he had some Fire Breath to gulp down until he felt like his lungs were on fire. All thoughts could vanish, even for a few hours.

He flinched when he heard the glass doors behind him open, spilling out a sound of laughter and classical music, then close. Footsteps approached, then stopped short. 

“Prince Jeremy?” a familiar voice asked. The Prince turned his head and met the eyes of Royal Guard Rich Goranski. He was in his guard’s outfit, blond hair slicked back and one split eyebrow. He looked somewhat elegant. In his hands however was a bottle of champagne, unopened and wrapped in golden foil. His white gloves clutched the tall bottle like it was something precious, and Jeremy’s eyes glanced back up toward Rich’s face, which was contorted into a mischievous smile.

“Rich, what are you doing?”

Rich raises the bottle and swishes it from side to side. “Come on, let’s sneak out of here. You’re stressed. I’m stressed. We could both use a friend.” Jeremy fully turned around to look at him.

His eyes were slightly wide in astonishment. “What about my Dad?”

He rolled his eyes. “I made friends with the guards as soon as I got here. They’ll cover for me.” Rich raised his bottle a little higher, and Jeremy felt more compelled to follow. His eyes looked toward the dancing bodies in the ballroom, now dancing to more upbeat music rather than slow. He caught sight of Jake and Christine, laughing as Jake dipped the girl low, kissing her neck multiple times to make his fiancee blush and giggle and the people around them to watch in disgust. He pulled her back up, and she wrapped herself around his chest. Jeremy’s eyes squinted.

He looked at Brooke, who was dancing with her hands on her hips swaying to the beat of the music as a shorter man with salt and pepper hair and a monocle agily pranced around her, showing off his moves. She looked slightly uncomfortable, but was saved by a slender girl with the bounciest curls Jeremy had ever laid witness to. Her dress was long, soft, and simple, yet somehow it worked in the sea of exquisitely dressed Royals. With eyes so striking, hair the color of honey and milk chocolate and large white-gold earrings shimmering from her earlobes, they outmatched the simplicity of her attire, and it could only be said that this teenager was clearly important. 

 She locked her arms with Brooke and told the man something. Brooke looked relieved and began talking to the girl as if she had known her for years. Instantly, Jeremy recognized the Duchess, Chloe Valentine who helped fund Rolan News and, rumor has it, fooled around with King Jake last year. Her husband, Brock, was absolutely pissed and hardly allowed her to leave her kingdom. He knew of her history— growing up beside the young Princess and had become close over the course of their Royal lives. Valentine had married earlier than many others, to another whom most had little knowledge of, and Jeremy’s father had mentioned once or twice how that new generation of Royals were quite handsome, yet lacked the intelligence to run a successful kingdom.

 

Jeremy looked back at the Royal guard and caved in, walking toward him with a determined expression. Rich grinned, leading the Prince toward the exit of the ballroom.

 

* * *

 

 

What had been one glass of champagne turned into two bottles, shared by both teens..

 Jeremy, hysterical and crying, slapped Rich on the back while confiding in him with his problems. Rich sat against the wall, clearly more able to present himself than the Prince was. He laughed lightly, amused at his new friend’s reaction to drinking way too much alcohol. They sat in one of the castle’s limitedly guarded gardens which Rich referred to as the Garden of Despair. The flowers were wilting and it would be the perfect place to sob on a friend’s shoulder, which is exactly what Jeremy was doing.

He was laughing at the same time, raising the gaseous beverage to his lips and swallowing more of the drink.

“A—And, wow, I really liked Christine, you know? She was so nice. So pretty. A beautiful maiden. I visited her like, all the time she would perform in that bar. I thought she was really into me. She kept talking about this guy who visited her a lot. And I swearrr she meant me! But then she shows me her engagement ring and, wow, I swear, that was like, the end of my _world_ ,” Jeremy spilled. His hands gesture a lot toward the night sky as he blurbed out his feelings. Rich nodded his head and took another sip of champagne, the bubbles sizzling his lips in the most pleasurable way. 

“I feel ya, man. I feel ya.” He chuckled, closing his eyes as the boy sitting next to him against the stone wall cried and laughed and sobbed again and burst out laughing once more.

The Prince stopped for a moment, and let his eyes get lost. “Well, I—I _think_ I liked her . . . I mean . . . I actually felt super upset during that time . . . and when she’s with _Jake_ . . . I hate that he's all handsome and good at talking. Not only that but _woah —_ ” Jeremy lurched forward, then caught himself again. “—but Dad is so mean to me . . . I think I’m doing so good! With my lessons and all. Like, I am good at kung-fu fists a-and I got better at dancing, and I don’t slouch as much as I used to a-and I even got my stomach toned— but that’s not enough. I wish he was like youu . . . Rich, you are a good brother. You are so nice. You are my brother. I love you brother.” Jeremy hugged the smaller, muscular guard.

Goranski listened to the tone of his friend’s words; so melancholy, so hopeful, then a more _longing_ kind of feeling when he talks about being his brother. Of course, Rich knew Squip was a harsh man when it came to his family. But he’d always wonder if he’d talk it out with his son. He recognized the pain in Jeremy’s heart when he was drunk. And he felt touched at the sound of the Prince recognizing him as a family member.

“You are my only friend. I have no friends. I have the servants. But they are so intimidated by me. They are not comfortable with me. You are. You are great. Thank you for treating me like I’m not perfect. I’m not perfect. I’m Jeremy. I wish Dad would stop trying to make me perfect. I wish I remembered why my hands look like this. And why I can’t remember what I was before I became Prince.” 

Jeremy was staring at his hands now. Rich glanced over at them, then did a double take and almost threw up his dinner, dessert, and champagne. His eyes were wide, staring at those hands.

Jeremy stared intently at the heartlines, how they connected, how they appeared; wondering if he could ever possess powers as cool as a Magi. His flushed face was tear stricken and his eyes tinted red, still dripping salty tears. His hair was still intact, brushing over his forehead and waving in places considered attractive to many females. His suit was a bit rumpled however, and his trousers were smudged with dirt.

The Prince shrugged, closed his eyes and picked up the bottle of champagne. He pressed the gold foil to his lips, but didn’t drink. He just lay the mouth of the bottle against himself, letting the roar of the universe rush past his ear. “I need to push myself to impress Dad. He’s right. Everything about me is just, terrible. If I _did_ try at all to make an effort. He’d be proud of me.”

His head was ringing and his stomach was saying _no_ to him. It was all too much. The world kept spinning and spinning and spinning, but his brother was right next to him, listening and there for him as it spun and pounded his head and mixed up his stomach. Jeremy barely registered the ghostly expression on the Royal Guard’s face. He took deep inhales, then set the glass bottle back down and hummed some random tune, then mumbling lyrics to a song of his own, “wanna . . . be a hero . . . sss’tay in the line,” before dropping his eyes and quieting down.

The chatter of distance voices and music finally made themselves evident to Royal Guard Goranski’s ears. He snapped out of a daze and looked upward toward the luna.

“Oh shit,” he mouthed silently, thinking of the punishment he could very well receive for allowing a Royal Prince to intoxicate himself. King Squip poured every ounce of trust in him, and if he had come to realize the numerous occasions where he’d betrayed his commands, a quick and mysterious death about the Captain of the Royal Guards could possibly come to the news!

Goranski stood up expeditiously and collected the almost empty bottle next to the passed out teen as well as the half-full bottle in his arm. He glanced around the botanical garden and approached a row of decaying, withering snow glories. Such lovely flowers that it was a shame to leave them to rot.

The guard poured the rest of the champagne into its roots, then tossed the bottles behind an equally decaying bush. He looked over at the sleepy Prince and sighed in frustration.

Building his guard strength, he approached the boy and lifted his skinny frame, tossing his body over his shoulder. The boy stirred, making no more than a _blegh_ noise as he carried him. 

The sky was still very black when he exited the castle. Jake’s Royal Guards saluted Goranski as he left.

“Adieu,” they smiled, chuckling at the Prince’s state. Rich ordered a coach, bringing himself and the drunken teen back to the inn. Rich Goranski was thankful to realize that the King was still present in the ballroom, possibly interacting with other Royals about how they keep such a fine kingdom in order or what laws had kept their citizens at bay.

Jeremy’s tongue hung from his mouth, and his eyes were already starting to look swollen.

Rich sat with his hands folded in his lap, trying not to grab the boy’s hands to examine them further and solve the mystery of why such an ordinary Prince would have powerful hands. He looked over at his brother with kind eyes, a face he does not usually express.

 This was a night that the Prince deserved.

 

* * *

 

 

Light suddenly felt like too horrible of a villain.

Pain soared through his crown, his skin, his flesh, and knocked ferociously against his eyeballs. A bright white glow all the same drilling against his lids. Jeremy rolled over in this bed that was not his bed, and skidded against the edge of the rectangular mattress. He screeched a strong yelp, clawing for the bedsheets but failing as his body sailed against oak floorboards. The thud echoed throughout his inn room and produced a shockwave of pain from his skull to his ribcage. The Prince moaned in absolute pain, unable to think clearly about events that occurred last night, or the time, or when to get ready for the irritably long coach ride back to Middleborough.

He screwed his eyes shut, enduring the excruciating migraine plaguing his head. Spots of colors resonated in his vision, and he curled his knees up to his chest. There was a severe form of something in his gut that persisted him to vomit, lean out the window and hurl out whatever rested in his stomach.

He choked, winced, moaned, and heaved.

A dryness was evident in the boy’s throat, tongue and mouth tasting like sawdust and the Sahara. Most importantly, every muscle, every ligament, roared with anger every time the Royal moved. Prince Jeremy just longed for water and food to clear out the nausea in his body.

He hated this feeling. Hated the aftermath of drinking what made him feel comfort. The grace above him must have despised entertainment, despised a creature’s joy in life; why else must this grace make fun things have downsides?

There was a click of a door, and an echoey voice like, “Prince Jeremy?” It sent a rocket of agony through his skull, and he grit his teeth unbearably.

“Oh, my Prince!” said the voice again. And whoever, ran toward somewhere else. There was a rush of what sounded like water, and before he knew it, there was a hand propping the teenager upright and the light minimized to a short darkness.

“Tall-ass, you shouldn’t have drank so much last night. You look gross,” mumbled the stranger. Prince Jeremy slowly peeled open his eyes once the migraine somewhat minimized. 

“Gee, thanks, I don’t get enough criticism from my dad,” he mumbled back. The stranger noticeably winced, a nervous chuckle resonating from him.

“Ah, sorry Jeremy.” Rich Goranski supplied him with a glass of tap water, tipping it toward his chapped lips. The taste of water made the Prince want to gag. He felt like vomiting; spitting in back in Rich’s face and insist that he did not need water.

Rich eyed him, noticed the disgusted look Jeremy was beholding on his pale, pale face. The Guard furrowed his eyebrows, anticipating his reaction, his rejection.

“Don’t you fucking think about it,” Goranski sternly said. Jeremy twisted his head the other way, hating the bitter taste of water today. Every time he sipped water the next morning after his hours of unhealthy drinking and chugging, it did not sit well in his horrid stomach. More water made him feel absolutely ill, and that feeling was extremely atrocious. 

“Are you five?” he hissed. “Drink the water or you won’t feel any better at all.” Rich’s “tough love” approach startled the skinny Prince momentarily. He pierced his ocean eyes at the man, quietly insisting his own way with the cool touch of the glass on his lips.

Instead of responding, Rich surprised him, tipped the water with force into his mouth, and gagged the Prince momentarily. Before he would dare spit the water out however, Rich pushed him backward, forcing him to swallow the disgusting poison of the morning. 

Jeremy’s face scrunched in repulsion, a bitter taste inflaming his tongue, and mixing up all the _bad_ in his intestines. 

“Jeremy, it tastes gross, I know, but do you want your Dad to see you like this? What do you think he’ll say? Huh? All cause you won’t drink water.”

The Prince considered that, oh, he _detested_ that feeling even more than that hungover experience he had after a night of chugging until he passed out. And so, he looked back up at Rich, with more water pressing onto his skin, and his body and mind aching from the shove to the ground.

There was an interminable, quiet pause where the Prince looked back and forth between the glass of water and his advisor/guard’s stern features. He heaved a sigh, and gave into the poison.

His face contorted into that of repulsion as he forced huge chugs of vomit-tasting water down his esophagus, upsetting his stomach, rearranging his brain pattern. 

“Hey— hey, slow it down man!” the Royal Guard advised. Rich’s hand fell upon the glass, pulling it slightly back. He raised an eyebrow at the sickly appearing prince. “Dude.”

Jeremy squinted back at him. “I’m drinking,” he said, garbled speech spilling from his lips, the sensation of his stomach being mixed up overwhelming him. “Oh, fuck.”

His organs were unhappy with his choices, intestines and liver cursing at him from his insides and commanding that he dart toward a bathroom, which, is exactly what he did.

His sensitive head, combined with the turmoil of his tumbling stomach sent him in a hurry to rush to the bathroom, where Rich Goranski heavily sighed at the sound of wretched, distasteful vomiting and moans of disapproval.

Jeremy stared guiltily at the clumpy fluids in the bowl, disturbed at the hot, sour taste in the back of his throat, and the lurching involuntary movement his body kept providing him.

“Tall-ass, you realize _chugging_ water will make you feel like shit?” 

“What was I supposed to do? You were making me drink it!” 

“I didn’t tell you to chug it!”

 “Well you also forced it in my face!”

“Small sips, Jeremy, small sips!”

Prince Jeremy rolled his eyes, pressing a cheek against the toilet seat.

“Um,” Rich began, watching the toilet seat and Jeremy’s face. Rich instantly made a disgusted face. “Uh, nevermind. We leave at noon, and it’s gonna be fucking horrible, but you have to _move_. I’ll pack your shit and lay out the clothes the Boss wants ya to wear. Plus your crown and yada yada.” Jeremy moaned in disapproval, the thought of ever lifting a finger too horrid a scenario.

“I’ll tell Dad the food didn’t sit right with you. He’ll cut you some slack if it came from me. I’ll get more water, and you just sip every few minutes. But I could probably speed up your hangover right now if you can get dressed on your own and I go down to the square to get some potion from the nearest seller. Can you do that, bud?”

There was a groan that indicated yes.

“Okay, cool. Don’t kill yourself while I’m gone.”

 

Jeremy’s personal bodyguard/advisor did just that while Jeremy’s mind drifted. The door slammed shut just after Rich yelled at him to get going, and his aching body laid still for a few more minutes. He let himself slide to the floor, feeling as if his organs were tilting along with him. Instead of properly walking, the Prince took quite a chunk of time rolling over and crawling like a one month old infant toward the room.

The length of time felt immeasurable, but his brain was pulsing uncomfortable. His organ beat against his skull, like it was asking, no, _demanding_ to escape from this prison constructed of bone, flesh, and hair.

If it was only Goranski he would have to fret over, he would feel slightly more relaxed to bend the rules, but, the terrifying flash of a picture of his father in his mind with electrifying teal eyes apoplectic with potent bate, caused him to snap his back back into good posture involuntarily, despite the agonizing pain. 

He moved like a puppet possessed toward the clothes, fingers brushing up layers of tight wool clothing, sheared from the sheeps of Merino. Though, that meant absolutely nothing to him, and meant everything to his Father.

He put on his clothes, including the sapphire collar. Jeremy felt substantial relief when he discovered that this outfit was one of the few fabrics that fit him comfortably. However, he did recall losing some weight— so it was not impossible that many of his tight clothes simply started fitting him. Grabbing the glass of water and doing as Rich requested— the adolescent took a small sip.

And he did just that about every five minutes, which turned into every twelve minutes, which warped into fifteen, which then left a dozing off youth on the ground, every bodily function jumbled from the hangover.

 

When Rich came back, he sighed in relief that Jeremy was sleeping on the floor, but in the clothes the King instructed him to don. He nudged the Royal with his shoe while holding a spherical bottle filled with a purple substance. 

“Yo, wake up Tall-Ass. I got you something for that bitch of a headache.”

“Mmh.” 

“And some pills for stomach pain.” He looked to the side, satisfied at the almost empty cup of water set on the table.

“Mmh.”

“And then we’ll leave. The carriage is getting ready, and your Dad is finishing last minute conversations with a Priest or something. Drink all of that— don’t worry, it won’t kill you.”

Jeremy looked up at Rich’s bored expression, and he sat up slowly, muttering in discomfort and gripping his head still. He took the potion from Rich’s hand, quickly uncorking it and slurping down the purple liquid.

His lips were coated with that dark potion as he put the bottle back down. Rich handed him two small pills in response. Jeremy dry swallowed them, scrunching up his face at the uncomfortable sensation of dry swallowing pills.

“Okay, perfect!” the Royal Guard said. “Just need your crown, and boom.”

“What’s gonna happen when we get back?” Jeremy inquired— words still slightly groggy. Goranski quirked an eyebrow.

 “Same as usual.” The Prince said nothing, but he had a faraway look in his eyes, lips ever so slightly in a frown, and cheeks flat.

 _I still am not perfect enough_. As his mind steadily began to become coherent, the burning, destructive musings were creeping out. Little by little. 

“Go outside, Dad might be waiting. I’ll take care of the mess and such. _Don’t_ help. Just go. Oh— and look, your crown.” Jeremy felt the heavy gold find a place atop his knotted locks and a shove to his chest. “Go.”

 

* * *

  

It was absolutely foolish to encourage yourself to enter another bar the day after a horrible hangover. Yet, the craving to go was simply too strong to overcome! Whether he ached to go back because he was longing for that hazy mindset, or simply due to the bar’s tastiest and perhaps harshest beverages, it did not matter so much, because he already was perched on a stool, sliding the pouch of gold toward the Ghost to ensure his stay, despite being underage. This had become routine, and the money usually disappeared from the table even when the Prince was so sure he kept his eyes on it— Larry was simply low-key like that. Another routine was hiding the sapphire collar beneath his dark cloak— practically _part of his body_ , he always felt as if his father may sneak up behind him and punish his incompetence for forgetting to wear something of such importance. But the teenager shook his head, 

He simply sipped the magical column of Agatha’s Tummy Twister, that often felt as if the liquid were being poured down a twisty straw into his abdomen. Its infamous name stayed true, kneading his insides like taffy, yet also stirring his brain like melted chocolate.

The night was oddly silent upon his arrival back, and he allowed his sapphire to be free.

His walk back to the castle felt quite odd, like the ground beneath him was holding its breath. Even the oak that often looked over him as he sauntered to his destination seemed to pause, just to watch what the quiet brunet should do. _It’s the alcohol._

His eyes loomed toward the quiet branches, pondering the movement of its careful being. He cradled the lantern closer to his vest and large sapphire, letting the warmth coat him and cuddle him away from the chilliness of the autumn. 

His rumpled dress pants were still quite chilly, yet not much was able to be done about that.

Most of the time, Jeremy felt quite ridiculous, and sure that his father would ridicule him if he ever made any mention of feeling as if every part of nature were watching him. But since that was not the thing that exactly felt off (he always felt as if something were watching him), the walk was ominous.

Maybe it was the gut feeling that his father could swoop in at any moment with an army of guards, demanding for his presence back. Jeremy’s face reflexively scrunched up in discomfort at the thought. His tongue and organs craved for a Tongue Popper, or perhaps the bar’s Tummy Twister cocktail. Whichever he chose when he arrived, he did not care, because all he needed was this outlet of freedom. 

He did not plan for the future, whether he should drink just a little, or go overboard once more and send his liver into a painful fit, where it should desperately grab on to life. Having a few lonely drinks where Christine no longer performed her plays became routine now. The Prince would spare a glance over his shoulder, downing a shot of hard liquor that burned his insides in more ways than he could count, and see a new maiden replacing Christine’s role as a princess.

He would turn back in his seat and stare down at the bar as he ordered two more Urchin shots. 

It slowly became a habit of peering at his own feet while he sauntered, avoiding the gaze of any curious citizens, which is not a very ideal habit, as a Prince should be able to look at every villager in the eye, sparking intimidation, power, royalty, and inspiring others to marvel at his presence.

Forming that habit was a mistake, and, though Jeremy would not expect to meet another face on this late night, he stumbles clumsily into something—rather, _someone_ and immediately feels his heart rate quicken at the surprise. On impact, he quickly looks up at whoever it is, and sees a person acquiring a large hood that covered a huge portion of their face.

But, the Prince is stunned into silence for a few seconds, bewildered at the person's heavily cloaked appearance. Instantaneously, he feels an overwhelming sense of alarm.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Jeremy stammers, just as they screech in shock. Their pitch black eyes peer at the giant sapphire accessorized on his neck, and instead of the usual amazement that Royals are often met with, is instead faced with yet another seemingly agonized wail that pierces Jeremy’s ears to no end, that he falls backward, head slamming uncomfortably against the dirt, to which he hisses in pain at. 

His head pounds oddly. 

Through the daze, the Prince stares upward at the figure, their eyes wide and mouth quivering in what appeared to be . . . _anger_ , taking the Royal quite aback. It appeared that their entire body was convulsing in distress, or rage or some _intense_ emotion.

“You’re a . . . a Royal!” they snarled with bitterness, finger pointing at him as he clutched his dizzy crown.

“Please, wait, buddy, calm down--”

“A _Morris_ Royal! You— disgusting, _vulgar_ _animal!”_ the person hollered, hands spreading out, clenching and unclenching as he spat. “My friends! You took them all! You kidnapped them all! Missing, missing, _missing!”_

Jeremy’s pupils darted from one of their hands to the next. “No, no, you must be mistaken!” He thought of the missing Magis that sprouted from across the kingdom. Ones that vanished without a trace. Ones that have been spoken about on Rolan News. “The . . . Magi Vanishings?”

“ _Liar!_ They’re gone, all gone, because of _you!_ Because of this fucking corrupt _Kingdom_!”

“Wait—” 

“Magis all over are weakening, and the Witches are struggling, and the rich are gaining money! You power-hungry, evil Royal! Rot in hell!”

“Please! My family has nothing to do with that! You have to believe me,” Jeremy pleaded, a pale, dirt covered hand shielding himself from the wrath of this figure. Their blackened eyes brightened to a concerning red, ones that made Jeremy’s skin go pale and throat dry.

 “Squip Morris has damaged us enough,” the humanoid laughed. “He’s taking our abilities— picking us off _clean_ of what makes us special. To benefit himself, to make sure no one is as powerful as his selfish ass—” They whipped their head toward Jeremy again, face drastically changing after intensely glowering at his dirt smothered hand, spit hanging off the edge of their mouth.

_The Prince’s hand— the heart lines, how they connect and how they appear—_

“T—They’ve done it,” they whisper, convulsing much more rapidly. “They’ve stolen the people’s abilities, they’ve stolen all my brethren’s Vortex powers, they’ve stolen all the powers of Magis to make a weak, artificial _Vox!”_

“What—” 

“YOU. ARE. NOT. A. VOX!” they shrieked, slamming their hand down to the ground with such force, Jeremy rolled back. “THE LINES ON YOUR HANDS! NOT YOURS! STOLEN! STOLEN FROM SEVERAL OTHER MAGIS TO CREATE POWERS FOR _YOU!”_

“I’m not a Vox—” 

“YOU KILLED MY FRIENDS! KIDNAPPED AND EXTRACTED THEIR POWERS! KILLED THEM!” 

Jeremy’s eyes widened and watered with anxiety as they towered over him, belittling and berating him as they accused him of crimes of torture, belched his lungs out, spitting phrases that made no sense, and non-stop thundering of the dreadful Magi disappearances.

“No longer will you take our people,” they whimpered. Jeremy could not speak, fearful of this rapidly shaking person’s distorted roars of anguish as their hands spread over him. He was frozen in fear, babbling murmurs falling from his dry mouth, staring uselessly at the hooded figure. 

In terror, the Royal could only spot two orbs hovering over their palms, one garish, fiery spinning ball, and another  _loud_ whipping, spinning funnel- like a mini tornado in his palm. And Jeremy paled much more at the realization of what it was and the echoing phrase of the words  _Dual Magi_ in his cranium. 

“You- You're,” Jeremy swallowed, “Fire and air—” He could not force out any more words, as it dawned on him the extent of this Magi’s powers. Dual Magis were significantly rare and  _strong_. Magis were normally as strong as any other creature of Magic. But a  _Dual_ or  _Vox_ Magi perhaps changed the game slightly. Duals were able to control two elements. They were in  _touch_ with them, able to will them to their power, with the proper training of course. 

All he heard was the garbled speech of the other, as the heavy sound of wind tore his eardrums apart and high heat radiated his face and skin. Jeremy pleaded desperately, terrified of _pain_ , and willed everything in his body to _please_ keep him safe.

“No, no no no no—” He felt a pressuring force  _shove_ him backward, in between the giant masses of oak trees. 

"You will not continue the next line of the Morris family. May the River of Chance decide your _true_ fate." The Royal Prince's eyes widened, and he glanced with lightning speed behind him at the pitch black  _drop_ just a few more feet beyond his normal path home. If it were not for the vortex of air encircling him and the loud roar of Satan's cavalry burning the tips of his hair, he would have heard the compelling, sweet song of Chance River. It's gracious, piercing waters rushed over stone and rocks, fulfilling the animals' thirst and allowing itself to be the object of the people's storytelling. Perhaps some really believed in its ability to decide fate whether to kill or spare its victims. Maybe some still attested to its power to change a person's life and send them on a new journey.

Whichever the case, it was difficult to know for certain.

His Highness tried to find the eyes of the hooded Magi, blocked by their powers and elemental magic. He screamed, grinding into the rawness of his throat, seething at the unspeakable pain of flogging winds and scalding heat. Suddenly, instead of being engulfed by the flames and wind, in a matter of two seconds, the fire vanished and the wall of wind descended into a fist shaped mass of air. Jeremy caught the brutal, sharp eyes and wicked grin of that Dual. 

"Goodbye."

The air-fist struck Jeremy clean off of the cliff.

He could only scream as his arm extended up, reaching into the sky for something,  _anything_ to pull him back. Clearly, luck did not want to save him from his demise, as the crashing of Chance filled his ears. As if a magnet was implanted in his chest, he felt pulled down further to the ground. The beast of rivers, with its incredible width and depth, the water of legend yanked him into her chilling arms. His last breath of air before the pull nothing but a curdled shriek.

And he felt gone, vanished, the appearance of blackness his only sight, his body curling underneath the rapid currents. 

             With Chance as his only hope, may the anecdotes of the good people of Middleborough tell of the truth.

 


End file.
